


Quiet Company

by Sophia_Bee



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Charles Getting Uncomfortable, Erik Has Feelings, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M, Major Character Injury, Photojournalism, Protective Erik, Sex, Syrian Conflict, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik Lehnsherr is always on the move. He's spent the last many years going from war torn country to war torn country telling the stories of the people there through photographs. Then one of his pictures is selected as a winner for the Pulitzer Prize and Erik finds himself stuck in London for longer than he wants. He ends up with an assignment to photograph Charles Xavier, a wealthy philanthropist who is intrigued to find himself working with a Pulitzer-winning war photographer. Erik is far less intrigued by someone he considers privileged and out of touch. Both of their lives are about to change in ways they couldn't imagine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiet Company

**Author's Note:**

> I have lots to say about this fic. 
> 
> First, so many thanks to **LaPetiteYoyo** for being my beta. This time she had to suffer with me being a complete idiot. But more importantly, I ended up editing with her in real time and it's a lot of work. So thank you! 
> 
> _Warning: A major character will be injured in this story._
> 
> This is inspired by one of my favorite books of all time, The Bang Bang Club, which is a non-fiction account of photographers in South Africa who covered the events during Apartheid in that country. It's a fantastic book which may have been made into a not-so-good movie. I am utterly fascinated by people who can document the truly hard stuff in life and survive on an emotional level. Getting these types of images out to the world is so important. 
> 
> This is set in Jordan and Syria. I've done my best to research what it's like for the people living through the war in Syria and I hope I portray the countries appropriately. At the end of the story are some links and there are some links within the text as well that might help paint the picture. Syria is a humanitarian crisis of gigantic proportions and writing this drove that home for me. 
> 
> Lastly, as always, thanks so much for reading. xoxo

Erik stares at the pint of Guinness that sits in front of him. Fucking Pulitzer. God damn fucking Pulitzer.

There are two kinds of people in this business. There are the ones who will die. How they die varies. They will drink themselves into the grave, stick a needle in their arm to find the numbness. They will put a gun to their temple one night when they can’t stop seeing the children or hearing their screams. They will write letters telling their husbands and wives and children how sorry they are, that they can’t stop seeing the bodies piling up, that they can’t live with the injustices.

Then there are the ones like him. The ones who survive until circumstances cut their lives short or they get out of the business. They are the ones who can push the images and sounds aside. The ones who see human suffering as an opportunity to get that one image that will stun the world. People like him are vultures, feeding on the misery around them. They are also still alive.

God damn fucking PULITZER, Erik thinks again, then picks up the pint and takes a long drink, and it’s cold and bitter and tastes good.

He’s between assignments. This is when he always gets restless, wound up. This is why he usually doesn’t try to stick around London very long, staying just long enough to make some phone calls, pay some bills, then he heads out again to the front lines. The middle of a war feels like the only place he can ever find peace, and even then it's so far from peace if Erik thinks about it too much he might break down.

In London everything is too normal. People are dying, suffering, and here everyone goes about their business like nothing is happening. It makes Erik want to punch something. Families walk down the sidewalk, children laughing, their faces aglow with excitement, and all Erik can see is the face of a dead boy in Aleppo, his eyes blank, blood crusting on his forehead, his mother screaming his name over and over again as Erik’s shutter click away. He walks down the street near his flat, past buildings but instead he sees the rubble of bombed out homes, remembers people wandering around outside with dazed looks on their faces and the way his ears had rung. Sometimes he wakes with a jerk because he thinks he hears an explosion only to be greeted with the same noises London always makes and he realizes it was in his dreams. Emma tells him it’s PTSD and maybe he needs a fucking head shrink and some pills. Erik tells her to mind her own fucking business and just get him out of this hell hole of normalcy. She's usually happy to oblige. Until that fucking picture and his fucking editor submitted it and now the goddamn Pulitzer.

Erik signals the barkeep and taps his glass, asking for another pint. He usually drinks more when he’s home. Never to excess. He’s not like some of his colleagues who have to be peeled back from the bar, who shake if they don’t sip from a flask they keep in their pockets all day long, who can't handle the horror unless they're numb. He won’t stumble home tonight, unable to find his footing. He just wants to have that comfortable buzz, altered just enough that he feels like he is a spectator to his own life. This is always how London is for him. He won’t feel any peace until he’s back on the plane, his gear stowed safely above him, on his way back to whatever war zone they want to send him back to. The problem is that Emma is keeping him here longer this time and it’s making Erik feel jumpy. All because of one photo. One fucking photo and he’s benched for way too long.

“Pulitzer, Erik,” she says to him the day she tells him he’ll be staying put for the next month. She’s looking at him through narrowed eyes, then she sneers at him as if he’s a child. “PUULLL-itzer. Do you even understand what this means, you jackass? For you? For all of us?”

Erik stares at her blankly. He’s not an idiot. He knows it means that the AP will want him to fucking stick around and he knows he wants to get back to Africa or the Middle East, or wherever they would send him, besides fucking London in the Spring makes him itch. He wants to get back to doing his fucking job. Other than that, it pretty much means nothing.

“You submitted the photo, Emma,” he says coolly, “not me. You never asked me.”

“It’s belongs to us, Lehnsherr. We had the right.”

“What I’m saying is that the Pulitzer can kiss my ass,” Erik continues, knowing his complete indifference and borderline hostility will entirely piss off his editor, who is indeed looking more red in the face with his every word. She opens her mouth, then closes it, stares at him for a long minute and Erik watches as her outrage drains away and is replaced with pure disdain for him.

“It’s a big fucking deal, Lehnsherr,” Frost says icily. "I expect you to respond accordingly. You only need to play nice until May and once you get your award we'll ship you off to whatever goddamn shit hole you want. In the meantime, stop being such a pain in my ass. Go to the spa. Get some therapy. Get fucked. Whatever assholes like you do for fun."

Emma's mouth twists in mild amusement as if she can't imagine Erik doing anything for fun. His idea of fun is usually trying not to get shot. He cocks an eyebrow at Emma and glares. Does she really think he's going to a spa? Are they going to drink cucumber water and get their nails done? He'll take option three. A few pints and a quick anonymous fuck might take some of the edge off.

Erik has drained half of his second pint when he notices a guy at the end of the bar glancing at him. Erik returns his stare and takes another drink, keeping his eyes trained on the other man the whole time. He's Erik's type. Male. Slender. Looks solid enough for a good hard fuck. Erik licks his lips, tasting Guinness, then he walks over to the other man who is now looking him up and down lasciviously. All agendas are on the table. He pats his pocket. Condoms. Lube.

"So," Erik says, smiling. It's not something he does often but he finds that people tend to get nervous if you only scowl.

"So," the other man says. He is not as good looking close up and he smells a little too strongly of cologne. Erik looks at his ass. Nice. He’ll do.

"My flat isn't too far," Erik says smoothly.

"Right down to business," the other man laughs, sounding slightly nervous.

"Always," Erik murmurs. What else is he here for? Not to make friends. Erik doesn't have friends. He turns and starts walking out of the pub. The other man gulps down his drink and follows him.

Three days later he's sitting in one of the too-small swivel chairs in Emma's office cracking his knuckles and turning himself back and forth. His plan of drinking and fucking his way through the next four weeks is already boring him. The guys he brings home have all finished coming then turned to him with some sort of expectation shadowing their eyes, like they want to fucking cuddle or talk or something. It's almost not worth the fuck because of the effort it takes to get them out so he can sleep alone in his bed. Has something changed with gay men that they didn’t get the memo that anonymous sex means fuck and run? It’s tiresome.

"It's not working, Emma." Erik sighs.

"What isn't working?" Emma snaps irritably. She's on a deadline and has already made it clear that she doesn't have time for Erik. He had readily ignored her and parked himself in one of her chairs anyway.

"Unless someone bombs the tube, I'm going to go crazy staying here."

"You're a heartless bastard, Lehnsherr," Emma says, not glancing up from her work. "Too bad you're pretty much the best we've got."

"Best in the business," Erik says, cracking his knuckles again. "Send me out, Emma. I'm going crazy."

“No, Erik. Part of the job is giving a shit when you receive a big fucking honor."

"Send Muñoz," Erik says coolly, "he's chomping at the bit."

"No." Emma says firmly. “You’re to stay put Lehnsherr. We’ll have you and a team somewhere soon enough, but this is part of your fucking job.”

Erik levels his best glare at Emma who rewards him by not paying attention at all, still staring at the photographs spread across her desk, a pencil in her mouth as she chews on it, her brow furrowed in concentration. Erik stares at her a bit longer then he decides to mount a protest. He’ll just sit here in this chair until Emma relents and gets him the fuck out of London.

It takes her twenty minutes to ask him what the fuck he’s doing.

“Sitting.” Erik answers with a smirk.

“Asshole.”

Another twenty minutes and she tells him to get the fuck out.

“I’m going to need counseling after this, Lehnsherr. You’re giving me PTSD.”

“Send me out, Emma.” Erik answers. “Get me the fuck out of London.”

Fifteen more minutes and she sighs heavily and slams the folder of pictures she’s been leafing through onto her desk.

“Fine.” Emma says, glaring at him.

“Really?” Erik says, “An assignment? Where? Egypt? Iraq? Back to Syria?”

Emma smiles and it makes Erik nervous. He stops talking and looks at her, waiting for what she’s going to say.

“Oxford.”

Erik is confused. Oxford? She’s sending him to Oxford?

“Did someone bomb Oxford?” Erik asks, half joking, half hoping.

“Yes, Erik. Someone bombed Oxford.” Emma says dryly, “NO, you idiot. I just need someone to take pictures and you’re bugging the shit out of me.”

Erik looks at Emma with his eyebrows raised. Seriously. She wants him to go to Oxford.

“Emma…” Erik says, “I’m a war photographer. I take pictures of conflicts. I’m a fucking Pulitzer prize winner….”

“Oh, now you care.” Emma says smartly.

“...and you want me to go to Oxford because you need someone to take pictures.”

“Yes, Erik. You’re clearly going to bother me for the next three weeks unless I give you something to do and I need someone to take pictures for a story Max wants done. Some trust fund wunderkind who’s going to change the world. At least this week. And we need pictures for the piece and Muñoz is backed up with work. Since you’re failing at keeping yourself busy, you might as well go.”

“Fuck you, Emma.” Erik says, glaring.

“Make a trip of it. See some sights.”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I don’t deal with trust fund assholes. Fuck you.”

“So you’ll do it?”

Erik huffs out a breath of irritation. His only other option is to continue to stage his sit-in, which has been unsuccessful so far in getting him what he wants. Plus he’s getting bored.

“Fine.” He says, feeling irritable. He’ll go to Oxford and take some pictures of some rich asshole just because it will give him something to do.

“Here’s the address. He’s expecting you tomorrow at 3 pm.”

Erik blinks.

“Who’s expecting me?” He asks, staring at a card that Emma is holding out to him.

“The trust fund asshole. Charles Xavier.”

 

~*~

 

Erik always feels better when he’s carrying his gear. The weight of his camera bag feels purposeful, like he has something to do. When he’s home in London he often misses its weight, feels naked without it, so it’s nice to be able to sling it over his back and head out for the train the next morning. Fucking Oxford. He wants to kill Emma, but he knows she’s right. It’s best for him to stay put and get through the awards luncheon, even if it’s the last thing he wants to do. It’s good for his career in case he ever wants to exit conflict journalism. Like that’s ever going to happen. He's pretty sure his exit will be a bullet with his name on it.

He never meant for the picture to win anything. His heart was in his throat as he clicked away, the woman on the street wailing to the heavens, people around her yelling, and all Erik could wonder was if one of the bullets would actually hit him this time. The hair on the back of his neck stood up but he stayed squatting, kept taking pictures. Still, he knows it’s only a matter of time before he meets the same fate as that boy in the woman’s arms with his dead eyes, except no one is going to cry over his death. He’ll just be another number in the ongoing body count that journalists face more and more these days. When he looked at the picture later he knew it was good. Damn good. Then Emma had confirmed it, sending him an email telling him he’d struck gold. Erik allowed himself a few moments of pride. He’s damn good at his job. Then he moved on because he never started this for the glory or for prestige. He has an eye and he wants to tell a story and he can see horrible things and still sleep at night.

Erik leans his head back and thinks about the wunderkind he’s about to photograph.

He’d spent a couple hours researching him last night, sipping a cup of tea, hunched over his laptop. Charles Francis Xavier. Son of the deceased Brian Xavier and still alive socialite Sharon Xavier of Westchester County, New York. Trust fund kid is right. The family is swimming in money from Brian’s biotech business that managed to survive him. It’s a family-held corporation, now run by one Kurt Marko, Sharon’s second husband. Erik briefly wonders how that came about. Charles is the only son of Brian and Sharon but he has an adopted sister, Raven Darkholme. Although Sharon is often in the media at charity events, adorned in expensive jewelry and furs, her two children have been mainly out of the limelight. There are a few pictures here and there, mainly of Charles looking awkward, his hair not combed that well, his nose too big for his face. He is indeed a wunderkind, entering and graduating from Oxford by the time he was 22 with a doctorate in genetics. He teaches there now, but not full-time. He’s mainly known for his humanitarian work via the Xavier Foundation. In one of the rare interviews he’s given, he says that he has always felt an obligation to put his father’s money to good work, to help the less fortunate.

Blah, blah, blah, Erik thinks.

Erik is sure Charles will be one of those people who Erik doesn’t give a shit about. That’s actually an easy conclusion to come to because Erik doesn’t give a shit about 99% of anyone around him at any given time, but Erik especially hates people like the man he’s supposed to photograph. They are the privileged, and as someone who’s been working since he was fifteen years old, who picked up a camera just for fun and then started slowly making a name for himself by being persistent and refusing to take no for an answer, he has little respect for anyone who just has life handed to him. He thinks about people like Charles Xavier, and all he can see is that mother screaming because her son has been taken from her, or the children with vacant eyes from living in a warzone who climb up precarious piles of rubble that used to be their homes and beg him for food. So much feels trivial and frivolous when there are people dying every day around the world. Charles Xavier’s story isn’t the one Erik wants to tell, but it’s better than another couple pints at the bar, which is starting to get boring, and suffering through another day in London when he really wants to be somewhere else.

Erik drifts off a bit as the train rumbles along, then jerks awake in a panic thinking he’s missed the stop, before he realizes he has about twenty more minutes before he has to disembark. He pats his gear reassuringly and reaches into his satchel for a bag of crisps and downs them, licking the salt off his lips. He pulls out his phone and looks at the email from Emma. She tells him a car will be waiting for him. And to be nice. Erik smiles, and it’s a smile that lacks warmth and is more predatory than anything. He writes back to Emma, telling her he’s always nice.

There is indeed a car waiting for him at the train station, and along with a real-life driver, and Erik wants to tip his hat and say ‘cheers good lad,’ or something like that, and he wonders if this Xavier fellow thinks he lives in Downton Abbey or some fucking BBC period drama. Who sends a car and driver anymore? He would have been just as happy to take a cab and then he could charge the cost to Emma. Erik sits in the back as the car heads towards the edge of town, then it turns down a non-descript driveway and bumps along until it stops at a somewhat large, old house that looms in front of Erik. He glances up at it, frowning a little. Of course Wunderkind lives on [some sort of estate](http://th02.deviantart.net/fs25/PRE/i/2010/157/6/3/Stock___English_Country_House_by_GothicBohemianStock.jpg). It’s old, the red brick walls crumbling here and there, and the wide gravel path up to the front door has neatly trimmed hedges on each side. The car stops in a wide driveway just before an iron gate that leads up to the house and the drive looks over his shoulder and nods his head towards the house.

“We’ve arrived, sir.”

Sir. Erik rolls his eyes. This is getting better and better. He thinks he might kill Emma for this. It’s exactly the kind of thing he hates. Erik slides out of the car, hoisting his gear onto his back, unlatches the gate and walks down the pathway, the gravel crunching under the soles of his shoes, and he notices that it’s strangely quiet here. He can hear some birds singing in the distance and there’s a breeze blowing through the trees making the leaves rustle softly, but there are no sounds of London, and no guns rat-tat-tatting in the distance, and the silence is vaguely disconcerting and at the same time unnervingly tranquil. Overall, the whole thing makes Erik nervous. He finally reaches the door, and he’s lifting his fist to knock when it swings open. Erik stands frozen as he stares at the man on the other side who is smiling at him, causing Erik to frown even more. He sees eyes flicker to the gear he’s carrying then back to his face and the smile grows even wider.

“You must be Mr. Lehnsheer.” the mans says politely, mispronouncing Erik’s last name. Erik can detect an undercurrent of a nasal American accent underneath the posh upper crust British he's sporting, emphasized by the country house they standing in front of.

“Lehnsherr” Erik says tightly, emphasizing the end syllable as he looks the man up and down. It's the same person he found a few pictures of on the internet, but he looks different. Older, more polished, much more attractive. He's not very tall, maybe even a little on the short side, but slim and he holds himself with enough confidence to make up for any lack in stature. His hair is longish and he's sporting a neatly trimmed perfect amount of beard, just enough to scratch along your thighs nicely.

Erik swallows. What the fuck?

"Mr. Lehnsherr," the man corrects himself smoothly but Erik notices a slight flush climbs his cheeks, betraying his embarrassment. He extends his hand and Erik looks down to see shortish fingers with nicely manicured nails, smooth like they belong to an academic who spends his time thinking and not doing. Erik reaches out and takes the offered hand, gripping it firmly, and he sees the other man glance down at Erik's fingers and suddenly he feels out of place in a way he hasn't since he was an awkward teenager. He holds onto the hand in his, feeling unusually clumsy, then his hand is released and the man is back to looking at him and this time Erik notices that his eyes are very, um, blue and they slant down a bit at the corners making him look kind of sad, or maybe it’s just that his eyes have a sad look to them that vanishes almost as soon as Erik thinks he saw it.

"Charles Xavier," the man says, in case it's not obvious, or maybe just because he's one polite asshole.

All in all Erik has only been standing on the threshold of the house for less than a minute as this all transpires, but it feels like a lifetime as he stares at Charles Xavier, who is entirely who he thought he would be, nicely dressed in a sweater and jeans, annoyingly polite as he gestures for Erik to step into the entryway. Erik tries not to be too obvious but he glances around to find the house is entirely refurbished on the inside, beautifully redone.

“Nice house,” Erik murmurs out loud, although he didn’t intend to say anything. He sees that slight blush climb up his host’s cheeks again, and this time he can see that the flavor of the moment wunderkind comes with freckles included, covering the bridge of his nose and standing out against his pinked up skin. And before Erik can even consider what he’s looking at or why he’s even interested in those constellations that drift across Xavier’s skin, he finds himself thinking to himself that they are actually somewhat beautiful on this man.

Jesus Christ.

Emma said he needed distraction. It seems that whatever men he managed to pick up and fuck in the gay bar near his apartment didn’t provide enough, but now as he stares at fucking freckles on the nose of some rich asshole, he discovers that for the first time since he returned he’s not thinking about how soon he can leave again. He’s just thinking about goddamn freckles.

Erik swallows again.

“It’s my mother’s,” Charles says, and Erik sees those sad eyes go sad again and then it’s gone and Charles is smiling as he leads Erik through the house, talking the entire time, saying something about thinking they could use the garden or he could sit in the living room, or they could even hike out to the pasture because there’s a very lovely view. Erik blinks as Charles stands in front of him, watching him, waiting for something. Then he realizes that he wants Erik to say something, to give him some direction for the pictures he needs to take.

“Uh,” Erik stammers, stumbling over his words, “I...um, well. This isn’t really my normal kind of thing, Mr. Xavier.”

There’s that smile again and this time it’s accompanied by a laugh.

“Oh, please call me Charles,” his host says warmly, “I honestly don’t stand on formality. But you...I know this isn’t what you usually do. When Ms. Frost gave me your name I looked you up and was quite surprised to learn that this is entirely different than what you usually do. You are special, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

“Erik,” Erik says. “Please call me Erik, and yes, Charles, I’m a little more used to dodging bullets and death than I am to the English countryside.”

“I saw your series from Syria. The one that won the Pulitzer…” Erik almost winces at the mention of the goddamn prize that’s gotten him into this jam. “...and they are stunning. I would love to talk with you a bit when we’re done. My organization...well, I really want to be able to do some work in that area and since you’ve been there….”

Erik feels a frown building up. He looks at Charles, who is looking back at him with that goddamn face full of pity and sympathy, and it makes Erik want to punch something. Yet another do-gooder rich person who wants to throw money at a crisis of impossible proportions while sitting in his fancy country home sipping tea.

“You have no idea,” Erik snaps, then he immediately regrets it when he sees what appears to be genuine hurt on Charles’ face. Fuck me, Erik thinks. How does another person manage to look hurt enough that Erik finds that he actually gives a shit.

“Anyway,” Charles recovers, stumbling just slightly over his words, “maybe you can help me understand. I...well, my foundation, I just want to see how I could get involved, and I thought if there’s anyone who could help me….”

“I need to get back to London right after,” Erik says casually, not wanting to agree to doing anything more than the job he’s come to do. Charles looks disappointed and Erik feels regret, which only serves to irritate him further, because who is this Xavier person to make him feel guilty.

“So,” Charles says, and the poise is back, “why are you here, Erik Lehnsherr? I can’t imagine with a Pulitzer under your belt you’re looking to go a different direction with your photography.”

Erik looks at Charles who despite his calm voice appears to be smirking a little. Smirking at him. Does he find it funny that a Pulitzer prize winning conflict journalist is standing grumpily in his living room? Well, to be fair, it’s somewhat ridiculous. Xavier is asking why he’s here, and it’s a good question. Because he’s a goddamn idiot. Because he can’t handle being normal for any period of time. Because he’s crawling out of his skin. Lots of reasons that he’s not going to tell a complete stranger.

“Favor for Emma,” Erik grunts, silently cursing her as he sets his gear on the ground and starts to unpack his camera. “Let’s get this over with.”

Charles nods and Erik hoists up his camera and nods towards the sofa in the middle of the living room. Charles sits down and Erik starts snapping pictures, the frown between his eyes growing deeper as he takes more. Wunderkind is perched on the edge of the couch looking at him, and he’s nervous and tense looking, which means these pictures are going to be crap.

“For chrissake,” Erik growls, “you look like you have something uncomfortable stuck up your ass.”

Charles arches an eyebrow at Erik, and for the first time that day Erik sees his smooth and controlled demeanor crack and a sense of humor peeks through. The other man replies, “versus something comfortable?” with a small smirk playing on his lips and this makes Erik startle a little, looking over his camera at Charles. Charles laughs at him, those blue eyes sparking with amusement, and that’s right when Erik gets one of the best pictures he’ll get that day. Is it possible that Wunderkind, who blushes too sweetly and has freckles, is flirting? Erik pushes the idea aside and they head into the garden for a few more pictures.

When they are done, Charles Xavier shakes his hand firmly and asks Erik if he’d like to stay for a spot of tea.

“I’d really like to hear more about your experiences in Syria,” Charles says, his hand again gripping Erik’s in a somewhat distracting manner. Erik blinks. What is it that he wants to know? People are dying. It’s ugly and no one gives a shit. It’s probably where Erik will die, another journalist death to add to the tally. Not much more to know than that and all of that won’t take even a cup of tea to convey. Erik chooses the even shorter version.

“It’s fucked up.” he says, pulling his hand away. Way too fucked up for the likes of Charles Xavier with all of his money and softness and bleeding heart do-gooder mentality. Almost too fucked up for a seasoned war photographer. Pretty much FUBAR, as one of his American compatriots had said one time when they were hiding out with rebels in a bombed-out building. “Not much else to say.”

“No tea, then?” Charles asks, looking vaguely disappointed. Erik shakes his head. He’s had enough of the countryside and the lives of the rich and famous. Even London is sounding better than this right now.

“I have to get back,” Erik says, “need to get these pictures to Emma. Deadline, you know.”

Because the world desperately needs more pictures of soft academics who have intentions to change the world instead of something that will actually make a difference. And Erik knows Emma doesn’t care when he gets the pictures to her. It still makes a good excuse to get the fuck out of there.

Charles looks at Erik through narrowed eyes as they stand in the foyer of that house and Erik is about to turn to leave when Charles says something that stops him in his tracks.

“You don’t like me much, do you Mr. Lehnsherr?”

That sadness is there again, and something clicks inside Erik, a realization that this man is trying to make reparations for something that’s been done, transgressions that Erik is unaware of. He hides behind this smooth demeanor and educated accent and part of Erik wants to growl at him that he’s not his fucking therapist.

“Does it matter?” Erik asks and he’s surprised to find that he genuinely wants to know. People like him are just the ones who Do Things for people like Charles Xavier. He is a means to an end, someone who will pick up dry cleaning for a fee and bring coffee and fucking enlighten him about the plight in the Middle East. He’s not a Pulitzer winning photographer to Xavier, he’s a boy whose mother died too young, who had to work odd jobs to make ends meet as he was building his career, who relied on the likes of Xavier to need his services in some capacity so he could eat dinner at night. He’s a servant. That’s the way the world works. The rich need things, the needy provide those things for never enough money, and the circle of victimization continues. And all the while, people in other countries are dying, destroyed by their own governments, fleeing the only homes they’ve ever known. And here this mans stand before him looking genuinely disturbed about the fact that Erik doesn’t like him. Erik fights back the urge to say more, to tell him that the things he doesn’t like are war, and dead people and bullets. Privileged academics are pretty low on the list, so don’t flatter yourself. He doesn’t say this. He just looks at Xavier who is staring back at him.

“Yes,” Charles says quietly. He doesn’t extrapolate why he gives a shit about a grumpy photographer, but Erik feels as if he’s had a rare glance at the truth behind this man. He wants a stranger to care, and Erik doesn’t know why. Erik sighs heavily. If Wunderkind wants the truth, Erik might be one of the few people who will give it to him.

“You sit here in this house,” Erik says, his eyes looking around the room and he gestures to nothing in particular.

“Not my house,” Charles says softly, as if that makes a difference. Erik remembers. Mother’s house, small detail.

“You want to help people but you don’t put yourself out there. You’re up in a tower, far away from the suffering you want to alleviate. It’s pandering. It’s self-important. I’ve seen the suffering. It’s not just something sad. It eats away at your soul.”

Damn-it if Charles’ lip isn’t wobbling a little now and Erik immediately wants to take back those words. They are unkind. They’ve hurt. The sadness in those blue eyes magnifies.

“Thank you Erik,” Charles finally says and his voice sounds like it’s cracking just a little, and he sounds shockingly genuine. Erik thinks this might be one of the strangest, most vulnerable moments he’s ever witnessed, and he’s witnessed a lot of human emotion in his lifetime. Charles Xavier standing before him looking shockingly broken is somehow almost harder to take than watching a parent hold a dead child or watching people pull body parts out of rubble. Maybe because Erik is entirely unprepared for this moment. He’s not steeled to take on the despair that he’s suddenly facing.

Erik half-laughs at Charles gratitude. “Thank you? For what?” Erik asks. He’s pretty much been an asshole to this man and he’s not entirely sure why he’s being thanked.

“For telling me the truth,” Charles says softly, “very few people will actually do that. Maybe no one.”

Erik is left speechless. He stares at Xavier, trying to figure out the other man. Then the moment is gone, slipping away from both of them. Charles squares his shoulders and tells Erik that maybe he’ll see him around soon. Erik thinks probably not and tells Charles he’ll have Emma send him the pictures. Then he walks out to the waiting car and heads back to the train station.

Emma emails him shortly after asking how things went. Erik writes back to her. Two sentences. Fine. Pictures in the morning. He closes his eyes as the train speeds back towards London and Erik realizes that for the first time since returning to London he hasn’t thought about leaving again for an entire day.

He sees Charles a week later. Erik is waiting outside Emma’s office, sprawled in one of the chairs made for people to wait to be graced by her presence and he doesn’t entirely fit in it. It feels like the entire world is built in a manner to make tall, lanky people feel like they perpetually don’t fit and Erik finds that he’s shifting his weight around trying to get comfortable and simultaneously cursing the designers of this particular chair. It’s doing nothing to make him feel less irritable.

The door to Emma’s office finally swings open and instead of his esteemed editor, Erik is surprised to see one Charles Xavier walk out, his head turned, and he’s in mid-sentence, thanking Emma for something, telling her he’ll see her soon. He looks the same, carrying that polished air, but now he’s dressed in a dark navy suit which compliments his eye color perfectly and his hair is combed back neatly and he smiles widely when his eyes fall on Erik. Erik takes in a breath because despite the fact that he detests what the man stands for, the first thought that pops into his head is ‘freckles’ and he has to admit that he looks damn good. Under other circumstances Erik might be highly interested if Charles shared that interest. Erik decides that despite his loathing, he might just take the opportunity to admire that posh ass when Charles walks away. Except Charles doesn’t walk away. He stops in front of Erik and he’s still smiling, and Erik wants to shield his eyes because that smile is fucking genuine and brilliant, as if Charles is entirely delighted to see him.

“Erik!” Charles says, sounding just as fucking delighted as he looks, as if he’s discovered that the cucumber sandwiches are indeed quite tasty or the Earl Grey is especially good, or a grumpy photographer happens to be sitting in front of him. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Erik says coolly, refusing to give in to the line of questioning out of principle, and partly because he doesn’t want to admit that he’s bored and Emma is pretty much his only friend in the world, and she’s not actually his friend anyway, and he’s here for no reason in particular except it’s better than sitting alone in his flat.

“Here to see a lady about a job,” Charles says jauntily, flashing a smile, and this makes Erik frown even more. As if Charles Xavier doesn’t already have everything and could ever need anything that anyone can offer.

“Don’t you already have a job,” Erik says, feeling irritated, “Oxford?” He immediately regrets the words that come out of his mouth because he sees Charles’ eyebrows go up as he realizes that Erik knows more about him than he realized, which means Erik has been researching, which means Erik gives a shit and the last thing Erik wants is for this asshole to think he gives a shit.

“Sabbatical.” Charles says, his voice still obnoxiously chipper. “They were very accommodating when I asked them at the last minute.”

Erik holds back a laugh. Poor little rich boy taking a sabbatical so he can work some goddamn thankless internship at the associated press. It’s an internship that probably has a hundred people less fortunate jockeying for it and Charles Xavier waltzes in and grabs something he again doesn’t truly deserve. This makes Erik hate him even more.

“Good for you,” Erik says blankly, wanting this conversation to end.

“And all because of you,” Charles says brightly, “all because you make me think, Erik.”

Erik stares at Charles feeling resentful that he’s being burdened with being responsible for the Wunderkind having some sort of personal epiphany.

“Great,” Erik says and Charles smiles even harder.

“Well, see you around.”

Erik wants to answer that he highly doubts he’ll see Charles Xavier around. They run in different circles. They’re different people. Instead he mutters ‘yup’ and nods his head then stands up and walks into Emma’s office, leaving Charles standing, watching him walk away. He must think that Erik is the rudest person on earth. Erik doesn’t give a shit. It keeps people like Charles Xavier away from him.

“Ah, just the person I was going to call,” Emma says when Erik walks in and plops himself down on yet another poorly designed too-small chair and glares at her. “Muñoz is going to take the awards lunch after all.”

Erik arches an eyebrow at Emma. Seriously? After all his begging to be sent out, she’s going to do what he suggested and not force him to accept the award in person.

“Really, Emma?” Erik asks slowly.

“You got what you wanted, sugar,” she says, smiling. “circumstances have changed. We’re sending you back out.”

“Where?” Erik asks, and although he’s entirely pissed at his editor, he’s also thrilled that he’s finally going to get his way.

“Jordan and then back into Syria.”

“Okay,” Erik says.

“You leave in three days. Are you ready to go?” Emma asks. Erik looks at her as if she’s asked the stupidest question on the planet.

“Of course.” Erik answers as he’s mentally ticking through the few things he’ll need to do to be ready. It won’t take long.

“And Lehnsherr?” Emma says, leveling a serious gaze at him.

“Yes, Frost?”

“Don’t get killed this time either.”

 

~*~

 

Three days later Erik is standing in the airport on his phone and the plane is going to board in thirty minutes. He’s yelling at Emma who’s on the other end.

“Oh, fuck no, Frost. FUCK NO.”

“Remy will be with you,” she says calmly. “he’s experienced. And you’ll only be going into Syria for three days. The rest of the time will be in the refugee camps.”

“I’m not a fucking babysitter, Emma.” Erik growls, glancing over at the man standing within earshot who knows that he’s the one Erik is yelling about.

Erik had arrived at the airport an hour ago, bags slung over his shoulder, and he had taken a deep breath before he walked into the building, savoring that light buzz of excitement that always seems to accompany him when he goes out on assignment. Leaving on assignment is one of the times when he is strangely happy. It’s because he’s stuck in between, leaving London but not yet surrounded by the horrors that await. He’d managed to keep that feeling until he arrived at the gate and found that he wasn’t going to be travelling alone. Standing by one of the rows of chairs with a bag over his shoulder, dressed in khaki pants, a button-up shirt and fleece vest and looking strangely, or maybe appropriately, nervous is Charles fucking Wunderkind Trust Fund Asshole Giant Blue Eyes Xavier. Erik didn’t even ask Charles what he was doing there. He just pulled out his phone and dialed Emma. Now he’s been yelling at her for ten minutes.

“He’ll get fucking killed. Fuck, he’ll fucking get ME killed. He’s a fucking liability. I’m not taking him.”

“He knows what he’s getting into, Erik. We’ve talked about it extensively. He’s signed the waivers. Anyway, it’s your fault, you asshole. You said something to him that made him think he needs to get up front and personal to what’s going on.”

Erik lets out a string of expletives.

“LEHNSHERR!” Emma yells across the phone, “you wanted to get out of London. You begged me. Muñoz is taking the awards luncheon for you. In exchange, you take Xavier with you on this assignment. Not negotiable, Erik.”

“Fucking insane, Emma. Taking a civilian into that shit hole is fucking insane.”

“Just don’t get him killed, Lehnsherr. I wouldn’t have agreed if it had been anyone else. I trust you.”

If the circumstances were even slightly different, Emma telling Erik that she trusts him would have given him some degree of warm and fuzzy feelings. Maybe. Instead it makes him even more angry. Some rich asshole is going to be put into danger because Emma fucking trusts him. Erik hangs up the phone without another word, then turns and walks towards Xavier.

“I guess it’s going to be you and me,” Erik growls and he’s rewarded with a smile from the man standing in front of him looking a combination of nervous and excited, and he’s still way too freckled. God, and pale. Erik hopes to god he’s brought some fucking sunscreen. Those freckles don’t stand a chance in the sun of Jordan and Syria. Then again, Emma didn’t say anything about not bringing him back sunburnt.

“She didn’t tell you?” Charles asks, looking a bit sheepish despite the situation with Emma not being his fault.

“I probably would have refused to even come to the airport if I’d known I was taking you along,” Erik admits, huffing out a breath of frustration at the circumstances he’s found himself in. “Emma’s not stupid.”

Erik sighs heavily. This situation is entirely fucked. He’s been suckered into taking a fucking civilian with him and his inexperience and ineptitude will probably end up with him being killed. And if Charles doesn’t end up dead, Erik probably will. Or maybe both of them. It’s the fucking stupidest thing anyone has ever suggested to him. Erik runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up then turns back to where Charles is standing.

“Okay,” Eriks says, trying to temper his annoyance with the situation. “Have you ever been to either Jordan or Syria?”

Charles shakes his head. Of course he hasn’t. It’s a stupid question but Erik has to ask. He needs to know what he has to work with.

“What languages do you speak?” Erik asks, thinking to himself that the bastard had better not say Latin.

“Um, Latin?” Charles says. Sonofabitch. “And some French.”

Erik rolls his eyes. Mostly useless, although Remy will be thrilled that someone will understand him when he's drunk. The situation is pretty much hopeless although it still might be considered just short of FUBAR.

“Well, it seems I’m stuck with you, Xavier.” Erik says.

“Charles. Really. You can call me Charles.”

Erik ignores Xavier and keeps talking.

“We’re flying non-stop to Amman. Once we get there, stick with me. Don’t wander off. Let me do the talking. I call the shots. We’ll be meeting my colleague Remy. He’s with Le Monde. We both speak passable Arabic but we’ll have a translator with us as well. We’ll spend the night in Amman and tomorrow we head for the camp and then the border after that. We’ll be identified as press the entire time we’re in Jordan but these days it doesn’t seem to make much difference. Once we enter Syria, it’ll be a lot more complicated. You’ll be safer with us than if you went by yourself, but it’s still a giant shit show there. Got it?”

Charles is looking at Erik like he might faint. Good. He might not be an idiot after all. He nods and Erik sees the rise and fall of his Adam's apple as he swallows audibly. Erik notices that Charles looks nervous. Nervous is better than cocky. Nervous will keep you alive and Erik really needs to get Xavier back alive. And then he’ll rip Emma a new asshole for this little stunt.

"Erik?" Charles says as politely as ever, and Erik feels his irritation slip away just a little.

"Yes?"

"I know you're pissed..."

"Pissed doesn't cover it."

"...but thank you. This...this is important."

Erik stares at Xavier, who is standing tall but has a bit of a telltale tremble going in his right hand that’s betraying the fact that he’s most likely scared shitless. Erik thinks that if Wunderkind has anything going for him, it’s that he obviously has balls of steel to request to be taken into Syria and then suffer through all of Erik’s bluster. Erik feels himself soften towards the other man just a little.

“You’re welcome,” Erik answers, then frowns. “Now, it’s five hours to Queen Alia. I’m going to read because once we arrive, there won’t be much time. Please don’t bother me.”

“Queen Alia?” Charles asks, looking confused.

“The airport.” Erik says, rolling his eyes, “that’s the airport in Amman.”

God help him.

Charles takes Erik’s words to heart because for the next five hours he says nothing to him. Erik sees him pick up one of the in-flight magazines and leaf through it. He glances over at Charles a few times and sees that he’s pushed the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows and it’s not just the bridge of his nose that’s freckled. He must be freckled everywhere. Erik silently curses Emma for the one hundredth time. If she was going to saddle him with some rich idiot who wants a field trip into the most dangerous place in the world, she could have at least found someone he didn’t find so goddamn attractive. Instead he’s sitting next to Wunderkind reading the same paragraph in the book he’s pretending to be engrossed in about ten times because he’s entirely distracted by muscles along Charles Xavier’s forearms. Jesus Christ. If the stupidity of this situation including the entirely idiotic idea of dragging someone without any experience into danger doesn’t get them killed, the fact that Erik is finding himself way too distracted by fucking freckles probably will. There is nothing about this that doesn’t leave Erik entirely unsettled.

It’s raining when they hit the ground in Amman, Erik striding quickly through the airport with Charles hurrying to catch up. Erik glares when Charles says something about thinking it’s always dry in Jordan.

“Travel guide led you wrong?” Erik growls and this seems to shut up the other man. They finally make it all the way to outside where Erik hears someone yelling his name and looks around to see a man standing not too far from them.

“Remy!” Erik calls and turns towards him. Erik has known Remy LeBeau for years and they’ve worked together in several hot spots around the world. He’s not sure if he’s ever been happier to see the most-likely-hungover sonofabitch who is standing wearing a keffiyeh, a flak vest, khaki pants and looking like he needs a shower and a good night’s sleep. He’s in front of a beat up van that has ‘PRESS’ in very large letters on its side.

“Lehnsherr, you asshole.” Remy booms in heavily accented English.

“Did we get Saeed?” Erik asks, striding towards Remy, still ignoring Charles.

“Pick him up tomorrow,” Remy says with a smile. Saeed is the interpreter Erik has worked with his last two assignments. He’s worth his weight in gold not just because he’s a damn good translator but for all the of the knowledge he brings of local customs and culture.

“And where are we crossing into Syria?”

“Near Zaatari,” Remy says. “Same asshole smugglers we used last time, but they charged me double for this one. Once we’re over, we’ll meet up with the FSA and travel with them to Homs.”

“Great,” Erik says. It sounds like everything is in place.

“So, Lehnsherr…” Remy says and Erik looks at him, then Remy looks pointedly at the man standing quietly next to Erik, doing just as he’d been told. Saying nothing. “Um, who is this?”

Oh, Erik thinks. Charles. He’d somehow managed to forget his interloper.

“Charles Xavier.” Erik says and Remy’s eyebrows go up at the mention of Charles’ name.

“Of Xavier Corp? You’re the son, right?”

Charles steps forward at this point and extends his hand in the same polite manner he’d offered it to Erik less than a week ago, and he still has that same polished air, as if he’s hosting a garden party, not standing outside the airport in Amman shaking hands with a stinking combat journalist who’s eyeing him somewhat suspiciously. Remy takes his hand and gives it a good firm shake.

“I am,” Charles says, “but that’s not important for what I’m doing here.”

“Which is?” Remy asks, wiping his palm on his pants, “I mean, except trying to get fucking killed.”

Charles’ mouth falls open a little and he stumbles over his words, clearly caught by surprise by Remy’s bluntness. “Um, I...I am wanting to get an idea of what things are really like here. For the people of Syria. I...my foundation, well, we want to help, but I didn’t want to stay in my tower, away from the suffering. It was explained to me recently that if I do that, I’m pandering.”

Erik winces at those words. His words. Fuck. Remy doesn’t have the same gut wrenching fear that seems to be lodged in Erik’s gut about this whole situation. He actually looks at Xavier with something akin to admiration, as if he’s happy to finally meet someone who is willing to get on the ground instead of throwing money at problems. Erik softens a little towards Charles as he watches the two men. What Xavier is doing, well, it’s not unadmirable. It’s just incredibly insane, and more than that, Erik has been asked to chaperone the insanity, and that’s the part he resents the most.

“He’ll need a flak vest,” Erik growls, not caring that he’s interrupting, “and I assume you have one for me.”

Remy looks from Charles to Erik and nods.

“I’ve got yours, Lehnsherr, and Charles here can use Schmidt’s. They’re about the same size.”

“Where’s Schmidt? I thought he was supposed to be here for a few more months?”

Remy looks at Erik then brings his finger near his ear and makes a circling motion. “Schmidt needed a little rest and relaxation,” he says with a smile. Erik understands. Some people just aren’t cut out for this work. Seems Schmidt was one of them. At least it means they can use his flak vest and won’t have to go out and find an extra one. Thanks Schmidt. Good timing.

They jump into the van and Remy goes careening through the crowded streets of Amman until he comes screeching to a halt in front of a large white stone building that reads Sadeen Hotel. Erik grabs his bag then motions to Charles to jump out and follow him. This will be the easiest stop of their whole trip. A night in a decent Jordanian hotel. Erik plans to sack out early and enjoy it because there’s a good chance they’ll be sleeping on the ground from now on.

Their room has two queen beds and is a little chilly from the air conditioning that’s blasting. Erik looks around and is happy to find that the shower is a decent size. He makes a mental note to tell Emma that this is a vast improvement over the last place she booked him into, but then he realizes that the only reason he got a nicer hotel room is because of the V.I.P. he’s been swindled into babysitting. Erik frowns and throws his gear onto the bed nearest the window.

“You take the other bed,” Erik says, gesturing to it. Charles looks at him with a funny look then smiles.

“Taking the nicer one for yourself, Erik?” he says sounding amused. Erik stops and stares at his travelling companion.

“No,” Erik says slowly. “If for some reason there’s a rocket attack, you’re safer further from the window. And you’re my guest. I’ll take the fucking shrapnel for you.”

The look on Charles’ face quickly shifts from amused to horrified and his mouth drops open to form an ‘o’ shape but no sound comes out. Erik thinks maybe he was a little dramatic. Jordan is stable. The chances of a rocket attack are low. Still….

Erik ignores Charles for the most part and heads to the shower. When he’s done he pulls on only his boxers and walks back into the room, toweling off his damp hair as he goes. Charles is sitting on his bed and Erik kindly suggests that Charles shower as well.

“You might as well get really clean.” Erik says, his tone matter of fact, “starting tomorrow getting clean will be almost impossible.”

Charles nods and heads to the bathroom, leaving Erik stretched out on the bed, his book in his lap, but again he’s not reading any of the words. His mind is whirling with what’s ahead. It’s not unusual that as he gets closer to heading into the action he feels more tightly wound, jumpy, but this time he has Charles Xavier by his side and the stakes are higher than Erik is entirely comfortable with.

Charles comes out of the bathroom after what seems like a long time and he’s also wearing boxers but his chest isn’t bare like Erik’s. He has a thin white cotton v-neck undershirt on that clings nicely to his chest. Erik glances and sees that the freckles do indeed extend across his collarbone which juts out enticingly and suddenly he feels a little too hot and wonders if he might be flushing a bit. Charles is staring back at him and Erik remembers a few days ago when he thought that the Wunderkind might be flirting with him, and now as Charles is taking in Erik’s bare chest with those sad blue eyes, and blushing that delicious shade of pink, Erik thinks that it was indeed flirting. Awkward and ridiculous flirting, and for some reason this sends a thrill through him, while at the same time twists his stomach into a knot.

“Turn off the light,” Erik growls, looking down at his book as if it’s entirely engrossing. “We need our sleep.”

Charles nods and pads over to the switch, pushing at it with is finger and plunging the room into darkness. Erik hears him walk back across the room, the soft swish of covers as Charles crawls into the other bed, rustling around a little, and then the room goes quiet.

Erik closes his eyes and slows his breathing and waits for that familiar tug of sleep, but his mind is whirling and he can’t seem to let go enough to drift away into the darkness. After a few minutes he ventures a whisper into the dark room.

“Charles?”

There is a rustling sound, as if someone is turning over in bed followed by a soft “yes?”.

“I need to ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

“That day I came to photograph you?”

“Uh huh.”

“Were you...um, were you flirting with me?”

The room is silent. Erik lays staring up at the ceiling, waiting for a response, and after a long pause, he hears Charles softly clear his throat.

“Yes.” It’s a soft whisper into the silence. Erik can’t help but smile a little.

“You might want to watch that.”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry Erik.” Charles says, sounding horrified, his words spilling out hurriedly under the cover of darkness, “I know you think I’m this rich asshole, but I actually don’t have that much experience in social stuff and I’m so awkward, and I just got this vibe and decided I would try because you...well, you’re kind of lovely, but you actually hate me and I’m so sorry. Can we just forget that happened?”

“Charles…” Erik says softly, and he’s positive he’s blushing now because Charles just said he’s lovely. Who the hell ever thinks Erik Lehnsherr is lovely? “it’s okay. I’m not offended. It was…” Erik searches for the right word, “...charming. I’m not saying you need to watch yourself around me. Your vibe, it wasn’t wrong...I’m queer. I’m saying to watch yourself here. It’s not Oxford or London. It’s not safe. I’m used to it but you...you’re not, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Not for that, Erik thinks to himself. There’s enough danger without people wanting to also hurt you for THAT.

“Oh.” Charles says softly, “I see.” then after a small pause. “Thank you.”

His voice sounds vulnerable and Erik feels the anger and irritability he’s been carrying about this situation melt away even more. He closes his eyes and thinks that maybe he can finally get to sleep now. He feels his body grow heavy and just as he’s about to drift off he hears Charles say his name.

“Yes?” Erik answers, rolling onto his side to face Charles although he can’t see him in the darkness.

“I think I’ve made a huge mistake. Coming here, I mean.”

Charles’ voice is shaking. Erik doesn’t know what to say to this. He agrees. It’s a colossal mistake, and he’s still flabbergasted that Emma even agreed to it.

“I should have just stayed home, threw a couple million at the problem.” Charles continues, not noticing that Erik hasn’t replied. “I have that, you know. Millions of dollars that I can throw at things that I want to throw it at. I’ve been giving it away for years now but it never feels like enough. I never feel deserving of what I’ve been given in life, and I thought if I came here...If I really understood what it’s like before I do what I always do, maybe I can feel worthy for once.”

“Charles,” Erik says quietly.

“No.” Charles says firmly, “let me finish. I’m going to die here, Erik. I’m an idiot walking into a fucking war zone. Look at what happened earlier - I think you’re a selfish bastard for taking the better bed but you’re just trying to keep me safe. I am completely out of my element…”

Erik can’t help but laugh a little at the truth of Charles’ last statement. Nothing about his privileged life or Oxford education would have prepared him for what he's about to encounter. This earns Erik a plea from the man in the other bed to take this seriously, telling him that it’s not funny.

“I don’t think it’s funny,” Erik says softly, his voice suddenly serious. “You’re right. You’re out of your element here, but you’re wrong that you’re going to die. I’m here with you. I’m not going to let you.”

It’s not something Erik says lightly. It’s actually not something he’s ever said to anyone before in his life. Erik is generally very clear that he doesn’t control the universe. But Charles sounds so sad and Erik decides then and there that he will walk out of this with Charles alive no matter what.

“Thank you,” Charles whispers.

“Now,” Erik says firmly, “go to sleep.”

“And Erik,” Charles says, ignoring Erik’s order, “if something happens to me. If I die. I need you to tell my sister that I love her.”

Erik feels tears sting the edges of his eyes. How is it that he can watch tragedy after tragedy unfold but this simple plea from Charles, sounding small and scared, goes right to his core?

“You’ll be able to tell her yourself, Charles,” Erik say softly, almost kindly. “Now, sleep.”

There is no more conversation and after a while, Erik is finally able to sleep.

They leave before dawn and Erik stands next to Charles on the sidewalk outside the hotel not looking at the other man. Charles is chewing on a finger and looking up and down the street nervously. They’re there about five minutes when Remy comes screeching up behind the wheel of the same beat-up press van, Arabic music blasting. Erik slides open the side door and he and Charles jump in. Remy looks over his shoulder and yells that Saeed choose the music and Erik sees the familiar face of their interpreter in the passenger seat. He greets Saeed in Arabic then introduces him to Charles, who is sitting next to him looking nervous. Remy guns the engine and takes off down the mostly deserted street. Erik looks at the hills around them, covered in blocky white houses, some of them starting to be lit by the morning sun that’s just peeking over the eastern horizon. No one has bombed these houses. They are filled with people, families, children, who will wake up and go about their day.

Charles is staring out the window as they drive along, and the houses get less and less, leaving the city behind. At some point Charles shifts his gaze towards Erik and their eyes meet for the first time since the night before and Erik sees Charles offer him a small, tentative smile. Against his better judgement, Erik smiles back and he sees relief flood the other man’s eyes.

Their first stop isn’t far from Amman. It takes them less than an hour when they see the camp in the distance, rising from the windswept desert. It spreads across the horizon, taking shape as they get closer, sand colored tents crowded together, clumps of trailers here and there, UNHCR in blue on each one. It stretches as far as the eye can see.

“[Zaatari](http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2013/05/09/world/middleeast/zaatari.html). It’s a little city,” Saeed yells back to Charles.

“A crowded muddy city with no plumbing and despicable conditions. A fucking slum,” Remy adds. Charles nods and looks back out the window. He wanted to get real about what’s happening on the ground. Erik thinks this is getting pretty real. He leans over to Charles.

“Stick close.” he whispers, “it’s dangerous here. We don’t carry guns, but they do.”

As they drive into the camp Eriks sees the ever-present children along the side of the road, running alongside their van, yelling out in Arabic. They are all arms and legs, their eyes too old for their faces, and they hope the foreigners might have brought them treats. Remy heads towards the central area of the camp that houses the administration. They’ll stay the rest of the day here and cross the border tonight in the darkness. Then the real fun begins. Charles doesn’t know it, but this is Shangri-la compared to what lies ahead.

The camp administration sets them up in one of the guest tents for the day. It’s not very big, rugs thrown on the sand floor. Erik drops the sleeping bag that Remy had thrown him on the ground and looks over at Charles who is looking all around him in amazement.

“They have whole families in these,” Erik says. “No lock on the door. No way to keep out the scorpions. When it rains they leak. This is what people escape to.”

“It’s...it’s amazing.” Charles says.

This is what he’d told Erik he wanted to see. Real life. Erik wonders how real life is sitting with him.

Saeed tells them he’s going to head to the marketplace and will bring back food and Remy grabs his camera and tells them he’s going to go take some pictures. Le Monde is putting together a big piece on Zaatari and they need some photos. This leaves Erik and Charles sitting alone on the floor of the tent.

“How much worse is it going to get?” Charles asks, looking at Erik. Erik doesn’t really know what to say. Charles is here for the truth, but what lies ahead is the kind of truth that you might regret knowing. Still, it’s not in Erik’s nature to coddle anyone, so he goes with what he knows.

“It’s hell.” he says, remembering the woman cradling her son. “The entire city is destroyed. People walking around like ghosts. Everyone shooting at each other.”

“And people are living there?”

“They are suffering there, Charles. Suffering more than the rest of the world really understands.”

 “And you like going there?” Charles asks, his voice quiet.

“I like my job.” Erik replies with a shrug. “Someone needs to tell the world.”

“So, how will we cross the border?” Charles asks.

It’s a complicated question. Syria doesn’t want people like him coming in. They don’t want pictures.

“Smugglers.” Erik says. “We pay them to take us across tonight. It’s a pretty easy trip.”

“And then?”

“Remy has contacts in the [FSA](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Free_Syrian_Army) and they’ll get us to Homs.”

“FSA? They’re the good guys?”

Erik shrugs again. It’s a good question. “I don’t know if there are any good guys left, Charles. There’s bad and not quite as bad. They’ll work for what we need. They want us in there taking pictures. We’re not here to take sides, we’re just here to document. That’s what photographers do.”

“Okay,” Charles says, looking away. Erik frowns a little and it’s not out of irritation as much as out of worry. Something has shifted since the night before and Erik feels a strange sense of responsibility towards the man sitting cross-legged with his elbows resting on his knees, looking almost contemplative as he stares towards one of the tent walls.

“Are you doing okay?” he asks, against his better judgement.

“I feel like I have to throw up constantly,” Charles says, glancing back at Erik, “but yes, I’m okay.”

The light grows dim and soon the sun sinks further and further towards the long flat of the horizon. Soon the darkness has descended and the camp’s power is shut off for the night. After a dinner of rotisserie chicken and sharing some sips from a flask Remy produces from his vest pocket, the group puts on their flak vests, strap the sleeping bags to the packs they’re carrying and prepare to head out. Erik checks his camera, makes sure it’s working, sends a quick email to Emma telling her they’re heading into Syria in about an hour. He’s about to send it when he remembers what Charles had said the other night. He looks over at the other man who is struggling to adjust a strap on his backpack.

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Raven. Why?”

Erik remembers now from the article on the internet. Raven Darkholme.

“I’m going to tell Emma to update her.”

Charles smiles wanly at Erik, his face pale and drawn, “thank you, friend.”

Friend.

Erik adds a request on the end of the email for Emma to update Raven then hits send. They won’t have any internet access until they reach Homs. Rumor is there’s a media center there. He stands up and throws his pack onto his back then goes over to Charles and starts helping him adjust his pack. Charles smiles again.

“You know what, Erik?”

“What?” Erik asks absently, pulling a strap tighter.

“You’re not nearly the asshole you pretend to be.”

Erik frowns.

“You’re not quite the rich dickhead I thought you were.”

Charles huffs out a little laugh.

“Well, I guess we’re even then. We’ve both surprised each other.”

Erik looks at Charles for a long moment, and those blue eyes look back at him but for some reason they don’t seem quite as sad as before, which is strange considering that Charles is about to be dragged into a modern day equivalent of hell. He feels something in his chest clench just a little and he finds that he’s actually offering Charles a genuine smile. Not a scowl, not a frown, not even his fake predatory smile. Against his better judgement, he likes the trust-fund wunderkind. Oh how Emma would laugh if she could see him now.

“I guess we have,” Erik echoes. Yes, Charles Xavier is very surprising in a lot of different ways, and if things were different, maybe...just maybe…. Erik shakes his head a little. There is no room for this here. If they make it out alive in three days, maybe there could be something. Maybe they could go back to London and maybe, but not here. Not now.

Someone outside the tent whistles and the four men look towards the door. Saeed goes to the flap, leans outside and talks to someone briefly. He leans back in and nods towards Remy. It’s time to go. Erik reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out two red and white [keffiyehs](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keffiyeh), handing one to Charles.

“Put it on. It will protect you, make it harder to see that you’re a foreigner,” Erik says, wrapping his own around his head. Charles holds it in his hands, staring at it.

“I don’t really know…”

“Here,” Erik growls, taking it out of Charles hands and wrapping it around his head until only his eyes peer out. Erik remembers how Charles had called him lovely and now as he stands staring into those blue eyes yet again, he wants to say the same thing. Lovely. Instead he pats Charles on the arm a couple times. “You look good.”

Charles’ eyes crinkle at the edges and Erik can tell that he’s smiling.

They walk out of the camp, and the men they’re with speak to each other in low tones, only Arabic, and Erik can catch a few phrases now and then. He doesn’t like the look of them, but when one is being smuggled across the border, one rarely is accompanied by the most upstanding members of society. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last time Erik wishes he had a gun. It takes an hour of walking before they reach the border. It’s a barbwire fence located in a field of sheep who look at the men suspiciously as they snip the fence and hold it open for everyone to slip through. Erik wonders briefly if any sheep will become casualties of this little adventure, but then decides that sheep don’t seem to have the intelligence to recognize a chance to escape when it’s put right in front of them. He glances over at Charles, who is looking weary, his keffiyah coming undone a little. Erik flashes him a little smile. Not much longer now.

The smugglers they’re with stay with them until they reach the top of a hill that rises in front of them and at the top of the hill is a handful of men, all Syrians with guns strapped across their backs, standing next to three dust covered beat-up trucks. They’re wearing fatigues and they all have their heads wrapped in the same red and white keffiyah. Saeed makes a gesture at them and the men gesture back, and Erik puts his hand up indicating that Charles should stop and wait until this exchange is done. Charles nods and does exactly as Erik tells him, moving slightly closer to Erik, as if he feels safer there. Saeed talks to them for what feels like a long time, and Erik can’t catch any of the conversation. Then their translator looks towards where the three other men are standing and gestures for them to come forward. Erik and Remy step towards the men and Charles follows right behind.

“They’ll take us to their camp tonight,” Saeed says, “And then Homs tomorrow.”

Erik nods and climbs into the back of one of the trucks, followed by Charles, who seems to settle very close to Erik’s side, as if it’s the safest place he could be right now. Erik glances over at him but can’t read his expression in the dark, but it probably is the safest place he could be right now. Erik doesn’t like the look in the eyes of the men now escorting them. Their eyes are hard, as if they’ve seen too much death, but to give them credit, everyone in this country has seen too much. Erik can taste the dust of the desert in his mouth and it’s familiar, reminding him of the time he was here before and before that. His whole body feels strung with tension because he knows from now on there’s no way any of them will be safe.

In and out he thinks as he shivers a little, the only point of warmth is Charles pressed against his side as the cold night air blows past him. Just three days. Go to Homs, look around, let Charles see what’s really going on, and then get him the fuck out of there. Maybe he’ll get some good pictures. Maybe he’ll get shit. Erik doesn’t care at this point. He’s promised Charles he’ll keep him alive and he’s going to keep that promise. He just hopes....well, this fucking place has a way of twisting everything around.

They bump along across the desert, not following any road and everyone in the truck is silent, gripping the sides of the vehicle, trying not to be thrown out. Erik looks out at the landscape that’s shrouded in darkness, his jaw clenched tight. The sooner they can get out of the open, the better. If there was an ambush or heaven forbid a rocket attack, they’re all dead. Fuck. He fucking hates this. It’s one thing to be going into danger himself but he fucking hates that it’s not just him he feels responsible for. Erik’s eyes droop but he has too much adrenaline going for his body to give into anything that resembles sleep. He never sleeps much when he’s on assignment, which is why by the time he makes it to safety he can sleep for days.

After what feels like hours and hours of driving, but could only be one, they arrive at a what looks like a stone house sitting in the middle of nowhere. The trucks screech to a halt in a cloud of dust and the men sitting around them all stand up and jump from the back of the truck to the ground. Erik stands, his muscles feeling stiff, and follows suit and Charles is right behind. Remy and Saeed have been riding in the back of another truck and they come to stand besides Erik and Charles.

“There’s a village nearby they want us to see,” Saeed says, looking over at Erik. Erik nods as he watches the FSA fighters pull brown tarps over the trucks to conceal them and he notices that behind the house there are about five to ten desert tents erected. The whole scene is quiet as the light around them goes from black to gray and Erik knows that the sun will be rising soon. It’s been a long night.

“We need to get to Homs,” Erik says almost absently, then looks at Saeed.

“They won’t take us until we see it,” Saeed says, his mouth set in a grim line. “Chemical weapons, Erik. The tents back here. Some of the survivors. There weren’t many.”

Erik hears Charles’ sharp intake of breath. He turns his head to see that Charles is looking at him with horror in his eyes. This might have made Erik look back with disdain at some point in the past, but now he only feels sorry that Charles, with all his softness and money, will now have to face yet another horror that this war has produced. He knows what’s in those tents. People with blistered skin. People who are sick. Children who have watched their parents die, convulsing on the ground. He remembers Charles’ words in the hotel room. Yes, this is a mistake. A giant, clusterfuck of a mistake, but they’re here. And they need to get to Homs and then they can leave, so that means they go to the village.

“I just need some fucking rest,” Erik growls at Saeed, not really meaning to snap at his friend, but he feels heavy with burden and all he wants is to have a few moments.

“We can have the house,” Saeed says, gesturing at the dilapidated stone building that is probably crawling with scorpions. Erik smiles wryly at their accommodations. He turns to look at Charles who is still standing silent, taking in the whole conversation without comment. Remy slaps Erik on the back and heads towards the house, muttering something about getting a little nap. Erik is still looking at Charles, who looks like he might collapse. The last thing Erik needs is to have to drag a civilian who is half-witted from total lack of sleep into a hostile situation.

“Let’s get some sleep,” he says to Charles and Charles nods, looking relieved to have some direction. They both head into the house, following Remy, and Charles watches as Erik throws his pack on the ground then follows suit. Erik goes to lean against one of the crumbling walls and it seems that Xavier is taking to heart Erik’s orders to stay close because instead of choosing a different wall to lean on, he settles down next to Erik. Erik allows his back to relax and shuts his eyes and somehow years of having to sleep in war zones allows him to slowly drift to sleep. It won’t be long but hopefully it will be enough.

Erik is woken by the feel of someone shaking him. He opens his eyes to find Charles looking into them and saying his name softly. Erik blinks. Once then twice and his eyes feel gritty from sleep and the desert sand.

“We’re going.”

“Fuuuuuck,” Erik moans as he rubs his eyes, drawing out the vowel and sounding a bit like a petulant teenager, “so soon?”

Charles smiles and for some reason Erik feels a slow trickle of warmth in his breast. He likes that smile. It’s genuine, and amused, as if Erik complaining about being woken is entirely ridiculous for this situation. Maybe it is. What does he expect? No one sleeps in in Syria.

“Yes,” Charles says, his voice gentle, “so soon, you asshole.”

“So you do use fucking profanity after all,”

Charles shrugs. “It just seemed to fit.” Erik smiles and wonders how Charles, who is so obviously scared, can sit next to him and smile like he’s having tea in his country house or something.

“Did you sleep?” Erik asks, not wanting to get up and let the moment slip away quite yet.

“No,” Charles sighs, and a small frown of worry briefly mars his brow. “But you did. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone just drop off to sleep that way.”

Erik raises an eyebrow and despite the fact that he knows better, he can’t help himself because he wants to see that flush rise on Charles’ cheeks and those freckles, and he wants to feel something normal for just a few moments.

“Watching me sleep, Xavier?”

Erik is not disappointed as Charles goes slightly pink.

“Are you flirting with me?” Charles asks, sounding bolder than he has before. Erik swallows because maybe he is and maybe it’s the stupidest, most awfully timed moment he’s ever chosen to flirt with anyone. But still….

“Do you want me to be?” Erik asks, still flirting. Charles stares at him looking thoughtful.

“Will you think I’m crazy if I say ‘yes’?” Charles finally says.

“Fucking insane,” Erik murmurs, smiling at the same time, because he’s in the middle of the fucking desert in a war zone and yes, it’s totally okay if Charles wants him to be flirting. It feels good, breaks some of the tension, and they are alone, no one is witnessing this moment between them, and for some reason Erik needs this.

Charles is still pink and Erik is still smiling when Saeed steps into the house and clears his throat, making Erik jump a little. The moment slips away and Erik turns to look at their interpreter who is watching them carefully.

“We’re heading out,” Saeed says with warning in his voice that says ‘watch yourselves friends’. Saeed isn’t blind. He knows what’s going on here and he knows that it’s not safe. Not safe on more than one level, Erik thinks to himself.

They find themselves in the back of the truck again, speeding across the desert leaving behind huge clouds of dust, Charles back in his place pressed against Erik’s side, his eyes darting around nervously. It’s not long until they reach the village, a cluster of sand-stone buildings sitting on the horizon. As they get closer Erik starts to see people, ant-like from a distance, a few here and there standing outside the houses.

“Watch the children,” Erik leans down and whispers into Charles’ ear. Charles turns to look at him, still close, eyes wide.

“The children?” Charles asks.

“When something bad is going to happen, the children leave. If there are no children, or if they’re suddenly gone, it’s time to get the fuck out of there.”

“Oh.” Charles says. Then, as politely as ever. “Thank you, Erik.”

Erik doesn’t answer. He stares at the buildings that are looming up from the flat landscape now, wondering what they’re going to find. Charles is still pressed against him.

“Look! There are children,” Erik hears him say, sounding relieved. Erik’s gaze moves around and he sees that Charles is right. There are children. He feels the man next to him sag a little more against him, as if the presence of children is reassuring. Erik thinks that it actually is. This is going to be okay.

What the FSA wants them to see is in the courtyard of one of the homes. The trucks skid to a halt outside and the fighters start jumping out, saying something in Arabic that Erik doesn’t quite catch. They motion to Erik, Remy, Charles and Saeed to follow them, so the four of them jump out of the back of the trucks and do just that. There is a rough wooden door at the entrance of the courtyard and when the men they’re with push it open, the first thing that hits Erik is the smell. He knows that smell. There are dead people behind that door. He glances at Charles again, worried about what they’re about to see, and he sees that his charge is looking horrified. It’s about to get much worse, Erik thinks to himself, and he tries to send Charles a reassuring look when he feels far short of reassured himself.

He never gets used to the bodies.

Somehow his camera provides a shield. It’s less real when he’s looking through a lens, and by instinct Erik grabs his camera and brings the sightfinder up, giving himself some distance from what he knows he’s about to see. It’s no different than what he expected. Bodies lined up, stinking and bloated, flies buzzing and the smell that will sit in his nose for days. Erik’s finger clicks his shutter and he makes adjustments as he takes picture after picture, and he forgets that he’s not alone as he tries to keep himself from reeling as his brain slowly translates what he’s seeing. Death, so much death, and suffering. Women. Children. Eyes vacant, gaping jaws.

Erik remembers he’s not alone when the sound of retching interrupts him. He lets his camera go, swinging around his neck and turns to see Charles has fled to a corner and is throwing up.

Oh god. He’d forgotten. Charles. All of this will be new for Charles. The bodies and pictures and everything is forgotten as Erik rushes to Charles’ side. He puts an arm on the other man’s shoulder as he heaves, and Erik knows that this is the type of situation, where at some point you realize you have nothing left to expunge but your body won’t stop.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Erik murmurs and Charles glances up at the sound of his voice, then Erik sees gratitude. Charles stands, looking very green and follows Erik as he exits the courtyard and goes to stand by the trucks. He glances over at Charles who is trembling.

“Do you get used to it?” Charles finally asks after a long pause.

“What? The bodies?” Erik answers. No. He never gets used to the bodies. He never finds the smell familiar. He never looks at the dead without seeing how much everyone has lost. “It gets easier.”

“Oh god,” Charles huffs. “Easier. Is this what it feels like to accept that this is the way the world is. You get numb. It gets easier.”

“You wanted to experience something real,” Erik shrugs, “so yes, this is what’s real. What can any one of us do here? What could any of those people have done. So yeah, it gets easier to accept this kind of hell.”

“You can sleep. How do you sleep at night, Erik?” Charles whispers, sounding sad and lost.

“I’m lucky,” Erik shrugs. It’s the truth. It’s just a matter of luck that he can stand all of this, but it’s not like it doesn’t come with a price. He can’t stay in one place too long. Normal eludes him. He hasn’t had anyone to come home to, or even a place to call home. He believes in nothing. But he can sleep. It’s a small consolation.

They are quiet for a bit longer and Charles pulls out the canteen that’s attached to his backpack, takes a swig, swishes the water around then spits it out. He turns to Erik.

“Thank you,” Charles says, huffing out a dry laugh, “I feel like I can’t stop thanking you. I know you didn’t want to do this, but you...you’re spectacular, my friend. I don’t know if coming here was the correct thing, but I do know that being here with you is entirely right.”

Erik’s mouth twists. It might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to him ever, standing in the middle of Syria, the smell of bodies in the air, and it’s not the first time Erik wishes circumstances were different. Fuck. Double fuck.

They stand together without talking for a while longer. Then Charles clears his throat and nervously shifts a little closer to Erik, and suddenly there’s a tension and a feeling of danger that wasn’t there before. Erik takes in a breath and without even thinking he holds it. Something's wrong.

“Erik?” Charles says, sounding vaguely panicked, and he is clearly sensing whatever is bothering Erik. Erik doesn't answer immediately as he scans the horizon, not entirely sure what he’s looking for, the back of his neck prickling.

“Yes?” he finally murmurs, distracted by the fact that something doesn’t seem right.

“Where are the children?” Charles’ voice is pitched a little higher. “There aren’t any children.”

Erik goes cold. Fuck. FUCK. Then he sees what he’s been looking for. A quick flash at the base of one of the hills and he knows at that point that everything is about to get really crazy.

“TAKE COVER!” Erik yells and just then a high-pitched whine fills the air. Erik turns to look at the house with the bodies just in time to see Remy and Saeed come bursting through that rough wooden door, their mouths open as they scream at him to get down and in almost slow motion the house with the bodies explodes in a shower of stone and dust, the boom so loud it makes Erik’s head ring. Fucking rockets, fucking government, fucking covering up their sins.

Erik grabs hold of Charles and pulls him towards him as he starts to run and he sees that Saeed is running alongside them. He lets go of Charles and shoves him towards the interpreter, and Charles reaches back towards Erik.

“Get him the FUCK out of here,” Erik yells at Saeed.

“NO!” Charles yells over the din as the gunfire starts. “I don’t want to go with him. I want to stay with you.”

“Not safe for you,” Erik yells, “Go!”

Erik skids behind the wall of a building and crouches with his camera in hand. Saeed lands next to him and Erik sees that he has a hand holding Charles’ arm. He wonders where Remy found shelter from the gunfire, and how many of the FSA fighters were killed, then he remembers that Charles is with him and refusing to go, so he levels a glare at the other man, and he's fucking angry that after all this Charles is putting himself in danger.

“You need to let him take you out of here,” he yells.

“Not without you, Erik!” Charles yells back over the din as the battle begins. He's looking at Erik and his eyes are brimming with fear and shining with tears.

Fuck. Erik rolls his eyes. This isn’t the time for any type of heroics. He’ll be fine. He’s been in this kind of situation hundreds of times. Charles hasn’t. If Charles stays, he’ll die. Erik has promised that Charles won’t die.

“Listen,” Erik yells, looking into Charles’ scared face. “I’m going to be okay. I’ll get back, but you’re in danger and you need to get the fuck out of here now before it gets even more fucked up. I said I’d keep you safe. I said I’d get you back to your sister. This is how I do it. You get the fuck out of here with Saeed and don’t worry about me.”

Charles nods.

“Okay.” he says, “But Erik,”

A bullet whizzes overhead and embeds into the wall of the building they’re crouched against. Erik flinches. Shit. Whoever is shooting is way too close.

“Yes?”’ Erik asks as he raises up his camera and snaps a few pictures.

“You promised me you’d get me home safe.”

“I did, Charles.”

“Will you make me another promise?” Charles says shakily, his voice pleading, “will you promise me you’ll get yourself back safely too?”

Erik looks at the other man. What the hell? It’s not something Erik has the right to promise anyone, or something that Charles even has the right to ask. There’s a bullet with his name on it and he can’t stop it once it reaches him, yet Charles wants him to promise. He wants him to tell him he’ll come back. Back to him. Erik closes his eyes as he realizes that there’s something going on here that’s entirely out of his control and he should tell Charles that he’s asking for something he cannot give. Instead he says something entirely different. Entirely idiotic.

“I promise,” Erik says, and he means it. There is something about Charles that seems to bring out his stupidity and he actually fucking promises him just like he wants. Erik sees relief in those blue eyes and a small smile on wind-chapped lips, and for just a split second, he wants to fucking kiss Charles, wants to take his hand and smooth away the worry between the other man’s brow with his fingers. Wants to.... What the HELL? Erik growls at Charles, letting his frustration with the situation get the best of him, “Just get the fuck out of here.”

And with that Saeed and Charles are gone.

It takes a couple hours for the fighting to die down. Erik stays crouched behind the building and eventually Remy finds him. Erik is relieved to see that his friend is okay. There’s always this bit of nagging doubt when these situations blow up and it’s always a relief to see that the people he’s in this with have cheated death one more time. When it seems that both sides have decided to stop for the time being, Erik and Remy use their passable Arabic to get one of the fighters to take them back to the camp in the back of one of those godawful trucks. By the time Erik arrives he’s worn out and dusty and wishing for that big shower in the hotel. Even his teeth feel gritty with sand and he knows he’ll be finding sand in various places for months after this. It’s the desert. It creeps under your skin and leaves its mark.

He sees Saeed sitting with a group of the FSA around a small brazier that’s lit to keep them warm. Remy slaps Erik on the back and tells him he’s going to join Saeed, maybe get a few more pictures, and Erik admires his friend’s work ethic. He’s not sure there’s a more dedicated photojournalist out there. If anyone deserves the fucking Pulitzer, it’s Remy not Erik.

Erik pushes open the door of the house feeling weary and ready to sit down and finds himself face to face with Charles. Charles, who is looking at him with disbelieving eyes, and visibly trembling. He’s fucking trembling. Erik feels his mouth go even drier, and damn it if he doesn’t need a big drink of water, but he knows the dryness isn’t about thirst. It’s about Charles.

“You’re okay,” Charles says hoarsely.

“Of course I’m okay,” Erik starts, “I told you…”

“...you’re okay,” Charles repeats, not hearing anything Erik is saying. In three steps the man closes the distance between them and Erik feels his hands come up to hold his face between them, and this is something entirely unexpected. Charles leans in towards him, tilts his head up and presses his lips to Erik's, causing Erik to startle a little and pull back.

“Charles,” Erik croaks dryly, searching the other man's face, "this...it’s adrenaline, it’s….”

“I need you.” Charles says, still ignoring Erik’s words. “Oh, Erik, I thought…. I was so worried, and I just...I just need you…..”

Oh god. Erik needs him too. It hits him at a visceral level and Erik feels himself lose his footing a little as the room starts to spin…

“You might have been killed. You might not have come back to me. You….”

Charles is running his hands up and down Erik’s flak vest now, murmuring over and over and Erik briefly wonders when he became someone who came back to anyone, let alone Charles fucking Xavier, who is touching Erik and looking entirely undone.

"Charles. This," Erik murmurs, "it's not real. It's nerves, it's fear, it's...."

Erik's voice trails off. It's not real. How could it be real?

As a policy Erik doesn't fuck people on assignment. First off, he's usually in places around the world where it's not remotely safe to be queer and despite the offers and available prostitutes, he's not interested in fucking women. Second off, sex complicates things and it's not like he's in situations that aren't already emotionally complicated to start with. Something about almost dying makes people feel close and fucking makes things that much worse. He's learned this over the years. And lastly, it's a distraction and distractions get you killed.

Still...

Charles is begging now, stepping even closer to Erik, his hands sliding to Erik's shoulders and his cracked lips are saying, “please''.

"I want you," Charles whispers.

Erik closes his eyes because he wants him too. He wants him so badly that it hurts.

"We can't," Erik says, clenching his jaw as he struggles for control. He squeezes his eyes shut because as Charles stares up at him, his face tipping upward, his lips moving closer, so close Erik can feel the warmth of his breath, Erik feels himself move closer and closer to the edge of something he doesn't entirely understand.

"I have to," Charles starts, "Erik, I have to. You could have been killed and...please. Please let me kiss you. I'm going to die unless I can kiss..."

Fuck it. Fuck it all.

Erik steps into the abyss and kisses Charles. Just to stop the begging. Just because those blue eyes are gazing at him filled with hurt. Just because he wants...god, he wants this in a way that he's never wanted anything before.

This is the stupidest thing he's ever done and it's going to get him killed. Probably will get both of them killed, but Charles' mouth is lovely and desperate and yields to him so beautifully that it makes Erik want to cry. Their mouths slot together, move against each other, as if they were made to go together and Erik moans...he fucking moans. Charles is kissing him back and pulling himself closer, pressing himself against Erik's length, his hips starting to thrust against Erik and this makes Erik freeze. He breaks away from Charles and the other man makes a sobbing sound then buries his face in Erik's shoulder.

"Fuck me, Erik." Charles whispers, his words muffled in the fleece of Erik's vest. How, Erik wonders. He has no lube, no condoms, and is Charles so far gone he'd let him go in dry? Does he want THAT kind of pain? Plus they're in the middle of a fucking FSA encampment in a country where what Charles is asking for is illegal. Yet Erik wants to do exactly what Charles is asking. He wants to push him to the floor, spread his legs and slide into that tightness. He wants to fuck him fast until he screams, until Erik comes hot and hard, balls deep in Charles' ass, until neither of them can think of anything but pleasure. No rotting bodies. No dead children.

Erik licks his lips. The are as dry and cracked as Charles'.

"I can't," Erik whispers. "Not here."

"Then touch me," Charles grits out and he moves forward, sliding his leg between Erik's, grinding his hard cock down onto Erik's hard thigh. “Make me come. Make me forget.”

That he can do.

Erik slides his fingers underneath Charles' waistband and Charles jerks slightly at the touch of Erik's fingers on bare skin. Taking Erik's tentative touch as Erik consenting to what Charles has asked, he sighs a little and his hands briefly leave Erik's shoulder to quickly unfasten his pants and pull down his zip and pull out his half-hard cock. Erik pulls his hand away, causing Charles to gasp briefly and he fishes around his pocket to find a white cloth handkerchief, and he hands it to Charles.

"You don't want to get your clothes messy. No laundromat."

Charles huffs a little wry laugh at the utter absurdity of the moment, "practical," he murmurs taking it. Then Erik's fingers are back, sliding against Charles' hipbone and Erik watches as Charles' eyes flutter shut. He strokes down Charles' cock, then finds the tip, which is wet with precome. Maybe just enough, Erik thinks to himself. Maybe some spit. He removes his hand again and Charles opens his mouth to protest then he closes it as his bright, dilated eyes watch Erik spit into his palm then his hand returns to slicking up Charles cock.

"Yesssss," Charles hisses into the silence of the room, his hips pushing towards Erik. He tilts his head up again and his lips find Erik’s, Charles’ beard scratching against Erik’s skin as their lips come together.

Given the chance, Erik would set up a pace that would be sure to get Charles off fast and efficiently. They are after all in a stone house in the middle of Syria and if someone walks in, it would be bad, so the logical part of Erik’s brain, the one that seems to have been pushed into the background, says if they’re going to do this, it’s best done quickly.

Charles has other ideas, or he’s just an entirely naive idiot, because it seems that he’s determined to kiss Erik the entire time and he will not stop. This leaves Erik with the job of gripping Charles’ back to hold him up and kissing him back, wet, sloppy, tongues tangling, leaving the hand that’s gripped around Charles’ hard cock, sliding up and down, causing Charles to lean harder against Erik, hips snapping as he pushes into Erik's hand, biting back moans. Because of this Erik is unable to set anything much more than a slightly more than leisurely pace and what could've been a quick hand job becomes something entirely different.

Erik feels overwhelmed, and it's not the sex, although the small moans Charles is emitting are causing Erik to feel incredibly turned on. It's the way Charles is leaning on him, trusting Erik to hold all his weight, and the way he insists on kissing him, and the soft sobs he emits now and then between kisses. The whole thing is unexpected and surprisingly intimate on a level that Erik isn’t sure he’s ever experienced before. His mind is clouded with desire and his hips are starting to twitch on their own, his cock wanting something, but Erik can still kind of think and he wonders who the hell is Charles Xavier that him coming undone makes Erik come undone in return.

Charles finally stops kissing Erik and mutters that he's going to come and he buries his face into Erik's chest again, his breath hitching, a moan humming low in his throat, and Erik grips his back, his large hand spanning almost all the way across Charles, supporting him, and now he can work Charles' cock faster, gripping it tighter, running his hand up and down its length, giving a little twist at the top and a quick flick of fingers across its leaking slit. Then Charles lets out a deep groan followed by long shudder and he comes, pulsing ejaculate into the handkerchief he's now holding over his cock.

Erik holds up Charles as he shakes with the aftershocks of his orgasm. His face is still buried in Erik's chest and he's whispering something over and over.

"Thank you."

Erik isn't quite sure how to respond. Any time? No problem? Glad I could oblige? He settles on whispering “you're welcome” into Charles' hair.

This is nothing short of a disaster.

Charles' breathing slows after a while and he finally moves to disentangle himself from Erik's arms when his thigh brushes across Erik's cock, causing a sharp intake of breath on Erik's part.

"Oh." Charles says quietly. Erik grimaces and sucks in his breath.

"It's okay." He says, offering Charles a wan smile. "I'm trying to think of unsexy things, like Emma in white leather or that fucking Pulitzer Prize luncheon you got me out of.”

“I could…” Charles offers, glancing downward. Erik shakes his head. He wants it but it's too risky. He took the risk to help Charles get through a tough moment, but this is not what he would take for himself. He thinks about Amman and that hotel, the decent sized shower, being clean, running soap up and down the naked body of man who stands in front of him chewing on his bottom lip. He thinks about being able to gaze at his bare skin, the freckles across his shoulders, kissing them. He thinks about taking his time and crisp cotton sheets. That would be what he wants. Only a few more days and they’ll be back. Homs tomorrow then back across the border the following day.

“I can wait,” Erik says softly, not thinking about what he’s telling Charles. He’s telling him this is something more than this moment, and it seems that for Erik keeping anything impartial, sticking to the job, has flown out the window.

“Okay,” Charles says, frowning a little with obvious disappointment, but respecting what Erik is saying.

"I want you, Charles," Erik says softly, his voice rough, "make no mistake. Just not here. It's too dangerous and you needed that more than I did. Like I said, I can wait."

"Okay," Charles says and he stands up on tip toe and presses those dry, cracked lips to Erik's in a light kiss.

They sit with their backs against one wall of the house not talking as the sun goes down and after a while Erik stands up, feeling stiff and achy, grabs his sleeping bag and curls up on the packed sand floor. Charles follows suit and Erik finds that he can’t sleep until he hears that Charles’ breathing has finally evened out and he knows the other man is asleep. Only then does he close his eyes and let himself drift off.

They leave in those same three trucks in the morning, once again bumping across the desert leaving that same trail of dust in their wake. Charles again sits pressed against Erik’s side, but this time he thinks it’s not because he’s afraid. Well, maybe it's that, but it's something else too, like Charles wants to be close to Erik, and Erik likes the way the other man feels against him. Erik closes his eyes. Two more days. Homs today. Back across the border tomorrow. Then it will all be over.

They stop to eat and the fighters share their food. Erik scoops up hummus with bread and there is some homemade cheese. He and Charles are sitting together a little distance from the rest of the group.

"This is good," Charles says as he takes a bite of the bread he's holding. Erik watches as the other man chews. Erik hums in agreement. They sit in silence for a while longer, enjoying each other's company and Erik allows his eyes to roam freely over Charles. His face is covered in a layer of desert dust, making his eyes look even bluer. Erik notes that despite the layer of dirt he can still see those freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose, standing out even more from the sun. His keffiyeh is around his neck and that perfect amount of facial hair is rapidly turning into a ginger beard. His hair is tousled from riding in the back of trucks for days now. He looks weary and while he still looks impossibly young, there is something in his eyes that looks older. Erik thinks about the man he met just weeks ago, so polished and polite, soft and academic and now he sits looking wild, like the desert around them.

Most of all, he's gorgeous. Under any other circumstances Erik would not be able to resist reaching out, cradling his jaw, tipping his face upward and leaning in to taste those wind-chapped lips one more time. Instead he picks up his camera and takes a picture just as Charles smiles and puts up a hand in protest, and the moment is so beautiful Erik can't breathe.

"You've been staring," Charles laughs, blushing, and it's strangely intimate in the middle of what feels like complete insanity.

"You..." Erik says, not quite knowing what he wants to say. You're stunning. Lovely. I've never felt like this about anyone in my entire life, and it makes me weak and scared Scared that it's not real. Scared it's the situation and nothing else. Erik can't say any of this. He settles on 'you surprise me,' which is part of the truth. Charles blinks.

"You surprise me too, Erik."

They eat in silence, both staring out over the barren landscape. After a long while Charles clears his throat and glances over at Erik.

"What will Homs be like?"

What to say? The second largest city in the country reduced to miles and miles of rubble. So many innocent people dead. A testament to how far people in conflict will go. Erik settles on the simplest explanation he can think of.

"It's a fucking wasteland." He says tightly, not meeting Charles' eyes. He continues to stare out over the desert but Erik isn't seeing the dry, barren landscape. He sees piles of rubble where buildings used to be and bodies, so many bodies. The smell of bodies that never seems to go away. Then there's the sadness that permeates the air to the point that he thinks he can taste it sometimes. And the anger. The same anger he sees in the eyes of the fighters who escort them. Lastly, the defiance. The refusal to back down.

Erik has been in Homs a handful of times since it all began and the state of the city and its people never fails to shock him. It's been almost three years since it began and no one could ever have imagined that what they're about to see would be the end result.

"It's unsafe?" Charles asks, breaking through Erik's thoughts.

"Yes," Erik nods, thinking that Charles said he wanted something real. Shit's about to get painfully real. "We'll be in opposition held territory but that's always changing. Still, it's as safe as we can get."

"And..." Charles starts then pauses for a moment and looks at Erik, his face serious. "And you promise me you won't die. I won't die and you won't die. You promise me we'll get out of this okay and then...."

Charles' voice fades away. Erik turns his head to look at Charles and he thinks of that shower and clean skin and cotton sheets, blue eyes and freckles, and once again he gives Charles something Erik knows he has no right to give.

"I promise." Erik says softly, maybe more to himself than the man sitting next to him seeking reassurance. One of the fighters whistles and motions to them, so Erik shoves the last bit of his food in his mouth and stands up, wiping his hands on his pants. He turns and extends a hand to help Charles to stand. Time to go.

They reach Homs not long after that stop and Erik gazes around him as they rush through rubble-lined streets. It’s worse than it was the last time he was here, more destruction, more chaos. He glances over at Charles whose mouth is pinched in a tight line as his eyes take in Homs for the very first time. There is no way to describe what Erik knows Charles is feeling in this moment. There aren’t enough words for the horror of this war.

Remy knows his way around Homs because in no time he has the fighters drop them at the media center. It’s not really a center of anything. It’s a small building sitting in the middle of chunks of concrete and metal that rise around it in the forms of buildings that no longer exist. There's a banner hung on its side that someone has spraypainted 'press' on. Erik doesn't know if the banner keeps them safe or makes them a target in this place that often seems to have no rules. He sees that there’s wiring leading to a generator that provides whoever’s inside with enough power to reach the outside world. Remy raps on the wooden door and it swings open, and Erik, Charles and Saeed follow him inside. It’s time to get to work. He pulls his laptop out of his backpack and finds a place to plug it in when he notices that Charles is still hovering close to his side.

“You can sit over by that wall,” Eriks says, gesturing at a rickety wooden chair. Charles wanders over in that direction, staring at the bullet holes in the wall. Erik turns back to his laptop. Once he’s booted up and has internet access the first thing he does is send an email to Emma telling her they’ve arrived in Homs and all members of their party are still alive. He pauses for a moment then adds a request to please tell Raven Darkholme that her brother is safe. He knows this will cause Emma to pause, because it’s not usual for Erik to think of these types of things. The next thing Erik does is grab the card out of his camera and load his pictures to the cloud. He can go through and edit them later, but for now he wants to get them off his camera and somewhere safe.

A woman plops down next to him and gives him a squeeze on his bicep.

“Lehnsherr,” she drawls, and Erik recognizes her voice. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Just returned from Iraq, Marie” Erik grunts, watching his pictures load. It’s a slow connection but it will do, even if it takes longer than he would like. “How’s Homs today?”

“Strangely quiet,” she says, “you know quiet always makes me nervous.”

Erik takes a moment to listen. Marie is right. It is quiet, but not the deadly kind of quiet. He can hear the rat-tat-tat of guns in the distance and one muffled boom, but he can also hear the sounds of children playing somewhere outside, and that always makes him feel better. Children being out and around is always good.

“Maybe just one of those lucky days,” Erik says. “The Times working you hard?”

“Always,” Marie smiles, “I’m heading back to the camps in a couple days to finish my story. Then back state-side for some R and R.”

The bar showing the upload progress disappears and Erik sees the familiar message that his files have been uploaded.

“Well,” he says, turning to smile at Marie, “time to take a look around.”

“Nothing to look at here, Lehnsherr,” his colleague says, “same shit, different fucking day.”

She’s right. It’s not like he hasn’t seen this all before. Still, the sounds of those children is drawing him in and Erik thinks maybe he can get some good pictures before they have to find somewhere to sleep for the night. He looks over at Charles who is leaning against the wall, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. He looks surprisingly at peace in the middle of all this. Erik really should leave him here to rest, but he knows that the only way to keep Charles safe is to keep him by his side, so he walks over and taps the other man lightly on the shoulder, causing him to jump a little. Those clear blue eyes blink open, and he looks at Erik, then smiles. Erik loves that smile.

“Hey,” Erik says softly, more intimately than he really intended, then he follows it with, “come with me. I want to take some pictures.” Charles nods eagerly, stands up and stretches a little.

They leave the small building and Erik blinks in the brightness of the sun as he looks one way then the other down the debris littered passageway that used to be a street. He can still hear the children in the distance. Once he thinks he knows which direction they are, he starts walking, and Charles falls in comfortably by his side.

“So,” Eriks says, eyes glancing around as they make their way by a shell of a two-story house, “why are you here, Charles Xavier? Why did you decide you needed to have me take you into a war zone?”

Charles stumbles a little over the chunks of concrete that litter their path.

"Well, Erik, it's really your fault. You dared to tell me the truth: that I'm a rich asshole."

Erik doesn't say anything. Charles Xavier may be rich, but he's anything but an asshole.

"But it's more than that," Charles continues, sounding a little out of breath from scrambling along next to Erik, whose stride is longer because of his height. "It's not easy being me, you know."

Erik snorts. “Um, Charles. I saw your country house.”

Charles stops and looks at Erik, “It’s my mother’s. I have an awful flat in Oxford. I can’t help what my family has. I just thought it would be a better place for pictures than my cluttered flat."

The sadness that Erik saw the day he met Charles is back and Erik regrets his words, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to see Charles’ cluttered flat. They stand looking at each other in the middle of a rubble-strewn street.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says and he actually means it. Charles looks hurt and he didn’t mean to hurt him.

“My dad died when I was just a kid,” Charles says, watching Erik carefully, “killed himself.”

Erik thinks about losing his mother too young, to something almost as senseless as suicide. Cancer. It's a terrible thing to lose a parent. It changes you forever. They have that in common.

“Kurt. My mother’s husband. He had a way of beating things into me.”

“With his fists?” Erik asks. Charles nods. Erik bristles.

“My mom is a socialite whose only concern is her image and she drinks herself to sleep pretty much every night.”

“Charles,” Erik gasps, hating what he's hearing, hating the pain in Charles' voice. “You don’t have to tell me this… you don’t…”

“No.” Charles says, his voice strong. “You asked my why I'm here and I want you to know. I have never lacked for anything in my life. Everything I wanted, I got, except what I really wanted, which was a loving family. But thanks to my father and his foresight, I have a ton of money. More money than I know what to do with. Both Raven and I do because neither Kurt or my mother can touch it. And it makes me so fucking miserable to have all of that when it’s not what I want, and it could help so many people.”

“Poor little rich boy,” Erik murmurs without disdain. Charles mouth quirks.

“Yeah, pretty much. So I started my foundation and started to find ways to give it away. I was feeling pretty satisfied with my progress, then you came along and basically called me an ivory tower pandering asshole.”

“So all of this is my fault.” Erik says with a smile, because surprisingly he’s actually not sorry to be standing in the middle of Homs with this particular rich asshole, and he thinks that one thing Charles Xavier is missing is someone in his life to love him, and maybe...once they get out of this hell hole and back over into Jordan, maybe when they’re back in London, and for the first time in forever the thought of London doesn’t make Erik’s skin crawl, maybe Erik can be that person for him. If Charles will let him, because Erik thinks it might be what he wants, and this thought rocks him to his core.

“Yes, all your fault, Erik.” Charles whispers then he smiles widely. Erik can see that his eyes are shining with tears, and this is the worst goddamn place in the world to be standing in front of someone who you think you might want to never let go.

“Charles,” Erik gasps as he stares at the other man feeling overwhelmed and emotional and he feels his own eyes start to prick with tears, and there is so much he wants to say but he can’t find the words, and his mouth opens to say something when Charles reaches out and puts his hand on Erik’s forearm and his fingers squeeze him hard. Erik looks down at Charles hand in surprise then back at Charles’ face. He’s expecting to see softness, tears, but instead he sees fear.

“Erik!” Charles says, but his voice is alarmed, and in a split second everything shifts. and Erik swallows as the hair on the back of his neck stands up and suddenly he’s tingling with the sense that something is wrong.

Everything is quiet. Deadly quiet. Too quiet.

Oh god.

“No kids,” Charles says, looking at him with fear in his eyes, “you told me that when something’s going to happen...the kids….”

No. Not now.

The first thing that goes through Erik’s mind is that they are standing exposed in the middle of the street and they might as well have targets on their backs. He looks around, his eyes sweeping the area for anything that might give them cover. The second thing is that he needs to get Charles the fuck out of here. Back to the media center, the fuck out of Homs, and out of Syria in general. The third thing Erik thinks is that this is not the day he will die.

“Stay close,” Erik hisses, grabbing Charles’ arm. Charles says nothing but nods, and his eyes look huge.

Erik drags Charles behind him as starts to run to a nearby building that has most of a western wall standing, scrambling over rubble. It won’t protect them from a rocket but if there are government snipers in any of the buildings, it will be enough to keep them somewhat safe. Luckily they haven’t gone more than a few blocks from the media center but at times like this, a few blocks can feel like a few hundred miles. Erik dives behind the wall pulling Charles down next to him, their bodies pressed into the rough ground, just as some bullets hit the ground right where they’d been standing just seconds ago. Erik looks around and spots the next safest spot they can make it to. Charles crouches next to him, panting, holding onto his arm tightly and Erik can feel the other man tremble.

Slowly they inch their way back towards safety, someone shooting at them the entire way. Erik never lets go of Charles, pulling him from crumbling wall to pile of rubble and back to another crumbling wall, shielding him with his body. Finally Erik sees the small house where Remy and Saeed are. It’s so close but in order to reach it he and Charles will have to run almost a half block and this will be the most exposed they’ve been so far. Once they’re inside, the banner that reads PRESS in big black letters should keep them safe.

“Are you ready?” Erik asks Charles and Charles nods. He looks like he’s going to throw up and all Erik wants to do is gather him into his arms and whisper that it’s going to be alright. It would be a damn fucking lie, but he wants to say those words to him anyway. They’re going to be alright. He’s not going to die today. Erik promised....

Erik will never forget what happens next. It will be burned into his brain forever.

Erik goes from crouching to standing. Gripping Charles’ hand in his, he gives Charles one last look, then they start sprinting across the distance that lies between them and safety. Erik’s legs are pumping and his heart is pounding so hard he can hear it as he sprints across the uneven ground dragging Charles behind him. That’s when he hears the sound. It’s a sound he knows, a hiss followed by the beginning of a high pitched whine and Erik skids to a halt, causing Charles to crash into his back. Oh god. This is bad. Erik opens his mouth and he screams as loud as he can.

“GET OUT!!!!! ROCKET!!!! GET. OUT. NOW.”

Erik watches as the door of the press center flies open and Saeed comes bursting out, his eyes wild, looking all around. He’s followed by Marie whose mouth is moving as she yells something Erik can’t hear. The two of them sprint towards where Erik is standing and Erik can hear Charles behind him yelling over and over for him to get down, and just then he feels a bullet rip into his thigh and there is blinding pain like Erik has never felt in his entire life, and suddenly his chest is on fire and he struggles to take a breath. Erik sees the ground come up towards him as his leg collapses under him and at that same moment he sees the door of the building fly open a second time and he looks up into the scared face of Remy, his friend, and just then the rocket hits the building and everything explodes. Remy is thrown forward, his body going limp like a rag doll, falling to the ground and Erik can see that the side of his head is a mass of blood and bone, eyes vacant and he's dead.

Oh god. Remy. He's dead. Erik feels his insides twist.

Erik is on the ground now and he feels arms around his chest and there’s a voice in his ear as someone starts to drag him backwards.

“Don’t die. Don’t die. You can’t die. You promised me, Erik. You promised me we would make it through this. Don’t die….”

Charles.

Erik is struggling to get a breath in, and he knows he’s been hit in the leg, but why does his chest hurt? Why can’t he breathe? He feels pressure on his leg and looks down to see that Marie has taken off her jacket and is pressing it to the wound that is pouring out blood. He sees Saeed leaning over him, pulling his vest open and hears the words, ‘bullet’ and ‘chest’, then Charles is back in his vision, his fingers pushing back a strand of hair, his face a mask of worry and Erik manages to smile.

Charles.

Suddenly Erik is gripped with panic. They're in the open. They're exposed, and he promised Charles he would keep him safe. The longer they're here the more chance of another bullet, another rocket....

“Get the fuck out of here,” Erik whispers and the effort makes him grimace, “Leave me.”

“No!” he hears Charles cry and Erik feels some tears drop onto his face as the other man leans down and places a kiss on his forehead. “I won’t go. Not without you, Erik. Never without you. You have to get us both out of here.”

“I can help,” Erik hears a familiar voice and he groggily turns his head to see it’s Saeed speaking now, and Erik blinks slowly because Saeed is holding a fucking satellite phone, and he wonders if there’s something he’s missed about their translator. Why the fuck does he have what looks like an MI6 issue satellite phone and who the fuck is he calling on it? Saeed is talking to someone, nodding. He hangs up and looks at Charles.

“The Americans are pretty close. They’re on their way.”

The Americans. What the fuck, Erik thinks and it’s the last thing he remembers before he loses consciousness.

 

~*~

 

The first time Erik wakes up there are bright lights and he blinks. His eyes feels scratchy and dry. Then he realizes there's a tube in his throat and he starts to struggle, wanting it out. And where is Charles? Then he sees Remy. Dead. On the ground. Because of him.

He hears voices.

"...fighting the tube...still not breathing on his own..."

"...Increase the drip rate..."

Erik tries to call out. Then he feels a heaviness surge through him and the darkness returns.

 

~*~

 

The second time Erik wakes up he blinks open his eyes to find a man he doesn't know leaning over him.

"You’re breathing on your own. It's time to get this thing out," he says to Erik. The man is wearing glasses, has a drawl and sounds very American. Erik realizes that he’s talking about the tube that’s down his throat and he feels the urge to gag as it’s pulled out slowly. Erik coughs and sputters and then tries to talk. His voice is hoarse and his throat is sore.

“Remy?” he manages to croak. No Remy is dead. Erik sees his body lying broken on the ground, a pool of blood starting to spread under it. Then he remembers. The pain in his leg. The bullet. Charles. Erik tries to move and pain shoots through his body. He grimaces and tears spring to his eyes. Where is he? Where is Charles? Erik needs to get out of wherever he his. He needs to find Charles. He needs….

The man who removed the tube yells for help as Erik sits up, wanting to get out of bed, to find Charles. He hears the sound of people running and then there are hands pushing him back into the bed and someone says to give him something IV and Erik tries to fight, tries to say ‘no’, that he needs to go somewhere, that he needs to find Charles. Then the darkness returns.

 

~*~

 

The third time Erik wakes up he tries to open his eyes but they feel dry and cottony and stuck, and part of him just wants to keep them closed. It feels like a herculean effort but he finally manages to open them and when he does he looks over to find Saeed sitting next to his bed. Erik tries to lift his hand, to reach out to his friend, but he can’t move. His hands are tied down to the bed. Erik frowns.

“Saeed?” Erik says and his voice sounds hoarse, only a whisper. He sees Saeed startle at the sound of his voice then his friend is hovering over him, a smile on his face. “Why am I tied up?” Erik asks.

“You tried to leave,” Saeed says, smiling, and Erik doesn’t know if he’s smiling because of Erik’s obstinance or because he’s happy to see his friend awake. Maybe both. "You were trying to find Charles, you idiot."

“You had a satellite phone….” Eriks says slowly as a memory surfaces, a hazy recollection. Saeed smiles.

“I may not have told you everything about me,” the interpreter says. No fucking kidding, Erik thinks, but he’s grateful that Saeed turned out to be more than he appeared.

“You saved my life...our lives,” Erik pauses as he realizes he has no idea what’s happened, how he got here, if anyone else died... Panic starts to well up, “Charles! Is he…”

Saeed smiles again and he offers Erik a soft, understanding look, as if he knows what lies in Erik’s heart, and Erik wonders if he’s been that transparent. “He’s safe and unharmed. Back in England.”

England? Erik glances around. He sees what looks like a typical hospital room, but if Charles is in England…

“Where am I?”’

“Landstuhl.” Saeed says, “the Americans brought you here. You were pretty banged up. Broken femur, collapsed lung…they were the closest to get us out and Landstuhl is downwind.”

Erik remembers the pain in his chest, remembers not being able to breathe. Then he remembers Remy. Oh god, Remy.

“Remy…”

It’s not a question. It’s not a statement. It’s a fact that hangs between the two men.

“It took them three days to get his body out.” Saeed says, his voice quavering a little and Erik sees the other man’s eyes are brimming with tears.

“Oh god,” Erik chokes out, looking away. His friend. Dead. It’s not like he hasn’t seen people dead before, and it’s not like he hasn’t lost colleagues, but it’s Remy. One of his closest colleagues. Someone he might even dare call a friend. He looks back at Saeed.

“I thought we would be safe there. We were supposed to be safe. I led them to you. I killed him.”

Erik closes his eyes as pain completely unrelated to his injuries washes through him.

“No,” Saeed says firmly, “you did the right thing. There are no rules there, Erik. It’s a hellish place. I’m never going back.”

Erik realizes when Saeed says this that neither will he. He’s finally had enough.

It turns out that Erik has become a well-kept secret. As he gets better he learns that in order to protect Saeed’s cover with MI6 the Americans are keeping his location secret. Saeed tells him that he’s been able to tell Emma that Erik is alive and recovering, but that’s about it. He won’t be able to see or talk to anyone until the crowds of medical people who pass in and out of his room every day decide he can walk out the doors.

Walking is another issue. His leg is thoroughly shattered, filled with bolts and plates, and Erik finds that he needs to learn to walk all over again. He spends days in the gym putting weight on his leg, making it move forward, working harder than he’s ever worked in his life just to get better.

Saeed is there. He tells Erik that he’s been given leave and he wants to be there to help him through his recovery. Slowly the two men actually become friends, and Erik thinks that for the first time in his adult life he actually has real friendship. Syria has changed him.

He misses Charles, and at night he dreams of him, sees him on that day when they crouched in the desert eating lunch and Erik realized he wanted more from him than he’d ever wanted from another man. Now Charles is back in Oxford and Syria is in the past. Erik knows that the other man has probably realized the truth - that what they had was adventure and adrenaline and not much more. Still, Erik writes to him, pouring his thoughts into paper. One of the nurses had given him a spiral notebook and Erik picks up a pen and fills the pages with words to Charles, from the mundane to the profound, and he hopes that one day he might be able to share them, and maybe they’ll be words Charles wants to hear.

“You love him.” Saeed says one day as he and Erik are sitting on a patio somewhere in the hospital getting some fresh air. He doesn’t need a wheelchair anymore and had made it all the way here with just a cane, although now his leg is starting to throb and he would really like some pain meds.

The question comes out of the blue, and maybe it’s because the doctors said that Erik is going to be set free. It’s been three months and a long recovery, but in a few days Erik is going to be able to walk out of here and go back home.

Erik doesn’t answer right away and maybe it looks like he’s thinking about what Saeed has said, but he’s not. There's nothing to think about. He does love him. It’s the craziest, most insane thing on earth because he barely knows the man, but yes, he loves him. He’s loved him since that night in the hotel in Jordan when Charles had whispered to him in the dark that he was going to die and Erik had promised him would not. He hasn’t wanted to say it out loud because everything feels like it hangs in the balance and Erik has no idea what to do. He’s in entirely uncharted territory.

“I do,” Erik says, looking over at Saeed, who is dragging on a cigarette and staring into space.

 

~*~

 

London is pleasant and sunny when Erik finally returns, something that would normally irritate him but it doesn’t bother him. He feels strangely settled as he opens the door to his flat and looks around at the place he’s never been able to call home. It’s sparsely furnished with a few photographs on the wall, a bookcase full of books and it has a smell of disuse. It’s impersonal because he’s never bothered to do anything to make it anything but that. Until now it’s been a stop on the way to something else, but this time he’s staying.

Erik remembers when he was a kid, before his mother got sick, and how he’d come home to their much less than modest flat and it would always smell like home and now he aches to have something like that again. He hasn’t missed his mother in a long time, but standing in the doorway of the only place he has to call his own, he’s hit with a strong sense of his loss. He hasn’t allowed himself to feel much about his mother for a long time. Now he wants his mother, the touch of her hand on his cheek, the way she would fold him into her arms and whisper in his ear in German, and how she smelled of lilac sometimes. Erik blinks back tears and swallows. He takes a deep, shaking breath and pushes his walls back up, the ones he keeps up to prevent everything from spilling in.

The next day he gets up and makes himself tea, fixes breakfast and tosses back a couple pain pills. After showering and getting dressed, he shrugs on a jacket and grabs his cane. It hurts to walk for very long, and his leg aches, but he knows he has to do this. It will take time, he tells himself. A year and then maybe he won’t hurt every day, and maybe he won’t need the cane. So he walks even though he knows that there’s a good chance he’ll overdo it and end up needing rest a lot the next day. It’s only going to get better. It already has gotten better. And he’s not dead. He’s not like Remy. Oh god.

Remy is never far from Erik’s thoughts and sometimes the guilt feels so heavy on his chest that he can’t breathe. Even though Saeed has told him it’s not his fault, and the therapist who would visit him in Landstuhl told him the same thing, Erik can’t stop thinking that if he’d only run a different way, if he hadn’t headed back to the media center, maybe Remy would be alive. He dreams of that day sometimes and he sees Remy’s face as the rocket hits the building and his eyes stay locked with his friend’s as he falls to the ground, blood and bone everywhere.

Erik makes his way to the office and it’s surprisingly no different than when he left almost four months ago. He ends up standing in the doorway of Emma’s office, staring at her as she looks through a pile of photos on her desk, muttering to herself. Erik smiles because he’s actually missed Emma and he’s filled with gratitude to be able to stand here watching her work. After a few minutes he clears his throat and Emma looks up. Her eyes go wide and then she smiles. It’s a genuine, happy smile.

“Erik Lehnsherr, you fucking asshole.” Emma says. This makes Erik smile. He’s glad some things never change.

“Fuck you, Emma.” Erik growls and makes his way to settle into one of those godawful chairs that are worse now that he’s dealing with an injury. He sees Emma’s eyes look at his cane and her brow furrows a little, as if she might have been worried for him.

“So whoever’s been keeping you finally let you go.” Emma says, watching him carefully.

“Damn Americans. Needed to keep the fact that they had me a secret.” Erik says.

“Your interpreter friend, um, Hasaam…”

“Saeed,” Erik corrects.

“Oh yeah, Saeed. He called me and told me you were okay.”

Erik feels the ever present sadness and guilt wash over him again. He’s okay. Others aren’t. Remy. He wants to say something but the words are stuck in throat, but Emma seems to know because she reaches out a hand and places it on his. Her touch feels warm and reassuring.

“I’m sorry, Erik.” Emma says softly. “He was loved by so many. The whole community is shaken. And to attack when you were all clearly marked as press. It’s...it’s...wrong.”

“Saeed told me they were finally able to recover his body,” Erik says softly. “Do you know if they got him all the way home?”

“His sister told me they buried him in his hometown.” Emma says, “But everyone here, they’ve been waiting for you to get back to give Remy a proper sendoff.”

Erik blinks. People have been waiting for him? They didn’t just say goodbye to Remy and move on? He feels his chest clench and he can’t say anything as he sits, thinking about what Emma has told him. They sit in silence for a bit, neither saying anything, both remembering Remy. After a bit, Emma clears her throat and speaks.

“Well, Lehnsherr, what do you do now?”

This reminds Erik about what he actually came here to do. He reaches into his pocket and fishes out a plain white envelope that he’s folded in half. It’s a letter he wrote while still at Landstuhl and he’s been carrying it with him, waiting to be able to give it Emma. He looks at it then places it on Emma’s desk. She stares at it for a long moment then looks at him.

“So you’re out,” Emma says. Erik nods. She has guessed correctly that it's his resignation letter. There won’t be a bullet with his name on it because he’s not going back. Not anytime soon. Maybe never. Remy’s death broke him in ways that he never expected and then there’s Charles, and Erik has changed. He wants something different. He wants a different life and he wants…he wants…. Erik can’t think too much about what he really wants because it feels too tenuous and fragile.

“Are you going to him?” Emma asks, as if she can read his mind. Erik huffs out a little laugh.

“Am I that transparent, Frost?”

Emma smiles, “Actually, no, Lehnsherr. He is. When they got him back to England the lovesick asshole called me every day for weeks, asking if I’d heard anything about you.”

Erik blinks and realizes that his eyes are wet. Charles called every day? Charles called Emma wondering how he was, worried about him, not knowing where he was. Erik swallows because he can’t say anything. It’s one of those rare times when he doesn’t feel the pain in his leg because his heart is hurting so much.

“It’s slowed down to once a week now,” Emma continues, “but we’ve become, well, friends, Erik. You need to go to him.”

Erik huffs out another laugh but he starts to feel this growing sense of hope. Maybe this is what he wants it to be. Maybe it’s more than adrenaline and being together in an intense situation.

“Plus,” Emma says, no longer looking at him but pulling open a drawer and rooting around in it, “there’s this.”

She holding out a single photograph and Erik reaches out and takes it from her. He looks at it. It’s Charles. It’s the picture he’d taken that day on the way to Homs and Charles stares at him, those blue eyes warm and loving, crinkling around their edges, and his hand’s up a little in protest and he’s smiling. It takes Erik’s breath away.

“He loves you and you love him,” Emma says, “No one takes a picture like that without something being there. You uploaded it to the cloud before you were shot and when I saw it, I knew Charles was someone special. You, well the old you, didn’t take pictures like this.”

“Emma,” Erik croaks, feeling entirely overwhelmed “I...I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say, you idiot,” Emma snaps, “you just need to go to him.”

“How?” Erik says, “I don’t even know where he lives.”

“You do,” Emma says, “he’s waiting for you where he knows you’ll find him. He’s been there since he returned.”

The country house. Erik pictures Charles in the doorway and he feels embarrassed by how much disdain he’d held for him the first time they’d met and he knows now how wrong he was.

The train ride to Oxford feels like deja vu, but this time Erik feels like he’s strung out, tightly wound, waiting for something. When the train arrives at the stop there is no car waiting so Erik takes a cab. He sits silently in the back and they closer and closer to Charles. Finally he’s there, standing in front of the iron gate and it all feels familiar, except this time he hopes he’s coming home.

Erik’s shoes crunch on the gravel pathway as he walks towards the house. He raises his hand and raps sharply on the door then waits. He leans on his cane, ignoring how his leg hurts, ignoring that he really wants another pill for the pain, ignoring how his heart is beating so loudly he can hear it.

Maybe Charles isn't home. Maybe he’s in Oxford on errands. Maybe he’d waited long enough and has given up on Erik coming back. Maybe…

The door swings opens. Charles stands on the other side. Erik swallows hard. He’s just as he remembers the first time he met him, standing in front of Erik with that confidence that Erik had noticed immediately. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt and his beard is back to being the perfect amount of neatly trimmed facial hair. Erik is so happy to see him that he almost completely embarasses himself and chokes out a sob, but he manages to hold it back.

The first time Erik had met Charles he’d been greeted with a smile from the shorter man. This time Charles doesn’t smile but his eyes grow wide as he sees who is knocking on his door. His lips part and he whispers Erik’s name followed by, ‘finally’. His eyes are the same blue eyes Erik has seen in his dreams, but as Eriks stares at Charles he sees they don’t have that tinge of sadness he’s come to associate with Charles. They are sparkling and they’re happy.

That’s when Erik knows. He’s home.

“I kept my promise,” Eriks says, and a look of confusion passes over Charles face, “I said I would come back to you. I’ve come back. If...if you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll have you?” Charles gasps, his eyes shining as he stares at Erik with a look of disbelief, “Oh Erik, if you only knew…”

Erik steps forward and grimaces and this causes Charles to glance at the cane he’s gripping.

“Oh my god, Erik.” Charles gasps, “no one would tell me. I called everyone I could think of, and no one would tell me what happened to you or where you were, and I’m so sorry. I hate that you’ve had to go through this alone, but never again, my friend. You’ll never be alone again.”

It’s like a dam breaks because Erik is suddenly flooded with emotion and love and everything that he feels for the man standing in front of him telling him he’ll never be alone again.

“I love you, Charles,” Erik says and the words feel like they’re being ripped out of him.

“Oh Erik,” Charles says, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Erik’s waist, leaning his forehead into Erik’s chest, and Erik takes the opportunity to sag against the other man, bending his head, burying his face in his hair, and his lips find Charles cheek and he kisses it softly, chastely, loving the feel of Charles’ skin under his lips. This causes Charles to turn his head and suddenly their mouths meet, crushing together, hungry for each other, and Erik thinks of freckles and crisp cotton sheets and everything he’s dreamed of as they kiss.

Erik gasps against Charles lips that are seeking another kiss, and then probably another, and Erik thinks that they will probably end up half dressed and fucking right here, except he can’t. It hurts and his cane has clattered to the ground, and Erik doesn’t know how long he’ll be able to stay standing.

“My leg.” He manages to gasp.

Charles freezes and pulls away, his fingers running down Erik’s arm.

“Of course, my love.” he says, taking Erik’s hand in his, and Erik feels a small thrill at the term of endearment. Charles leads him to what is probably the master suite, saying something about it being much more comfortable.

Erik is consumed by urgency now that he finally has Charles in his arms after all these months, but Charles, for all his softness, is strong and determined, and he insists on slowly undressing Erik, taking his time to carefully remove each item of clothing as Erik trembles in front of him, his finger brushing softly across his clavicle, along the curve of his shoulder, drifting down until they find the scars from the chest tubes and surgery.

“I was so scared,” Charles whispers, leaning down to place a kiss on his ribs, “You were gasping for air and there was this gurgling sound and I thought I would lose you.”

He finds the bullet entry wound and runs his fingers over the pink scar tissue that sometimes still aches, then he places his lips on that and kisses it too. Erik shivers deeply because he is hard and aroused and the touch of Charles’ lips on his skin, the feel of his warm tears, is making Erik come completely undone. Then Charles returns to kissing him, because it appears that Charles really likes kissing him, but Erik is glad because it helps relieve some of the ache.

Charles’ fingers go to Erik’s pants and he undoes them, hooking his fingers into both the waistband of Erik’s pants and underwear and pulling them down in one swift movement, sinking to his knees at the same time. Erik steps out of the pile of clothes that now pool at his feet and Charles remains kneeling in front of him, staring at the long surgical scar that now graces Erik’s right thigh. He touches it with trembling fingers, softly, hesitant and Erik gasps.

“So much pain,” Charles whispers, sounding wrecked, as if he can feel everything Erik went through, as if he aches for him. Then Charles is back on his feet and he’s back to kissing Erik like he’s the oxygen Charles needs to stay alive, and Erik is kissing him back in the exact same way. Although he knows what’s to come and he aches for the release that he knows will wash everything away, Erik also never wants this moment to end. He wants to kiss Charles forever, to feel his lips on his, to tangle their tongues, because it feels so good and so perfect that Erik could cry. Maybe he is crying because his cheeks feel wet and his breath hitches and he hears what sounds like a sob that could be him.

“Fuck me,” Erik whispers against Charles’ lips, and he feels Charles smile a little.

“I will,” Charles whispers back, “but not yet. Just not quite yet…there is so much about you I want to learn.”

They end up with Charles stretch out over top Erik, on a huge bed that is as comfortable as Erik could ever imagine, and Charles has removed all his clothing in a quick, efficient manner and is placing kisses across the planes of Erik’s chest, stopping to pay extra attention to his nipples, making Erik gasp.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” Charles whispers against Erik’s hot, flushed skin, biting a little and making Erik jump. Erik squirms and his legs fall apart on their own accord, inviting, wanting, and Erik arches up, trying to get some friction on his cock that is now engorged and aching for release.

“Not just yet,” Charles says, his mouth moving down to Erik’s flat belly, ghosting more kisses, then further down to nuzzle into his thigh, inhaling deeply. Erik moans deeply and bites his lips, and he’s glad they are alone in this house because there is no way he’s not going to be loud. Not when Charles is nosing into his groin, so close to his cock, and if he moved over just inches he could take Erik into his mouth and then…

Erik doesn’t think he’d last long if Charles did that. Not long at all. Luckily or not luckily, Charles lifts his head then pulls himself up on his knees and scrambles back up to once again sprawl across Erik and their mouths find each other again. Charles breaks the kiss and smiles down at Erik.

“How do you want it?” he asks. Erik blinks. He doesn’t know how to answer. He doesn’t know if he cares, but then something comes to him.

“I want to see you. However you work that out, I just want to see you.”

Charles draws in a shaking breath.

“Okay. Hold on.” he rolls off Erik and Erik feels goosebumps on his arms as his body is hit with the cool air in the room. It’s very brief because Charles returns, tossing a condom and a bottle of lube onto the bed. Then, kneeling between Erik’s spread legs and twitching thighs, Charles rolls on the condom and squeezes some lube into his hand then proceeds to slick up his cock that’s hard and jutting out. Erik watches him through hooded eyes, his whole body thrumming with the knowledge of what’s coming next. Charles scoots forward a little and Erik spreads his thighs further apart and lifts his hips, opening himself up wider and this makes Charles smile, seeing how much Erik wants this...wants him. He grips Erik’s hips and Erik’s legs go to wrap around Charles’ slim waist and then Charles’ face screws up in concentration as reaches down to position his cock then slowly pushes in.

“Oh god,” Erik huffs out as he feels the burn and stretch of Charles buried in his ass.

“You feel so good, better than I imagined...” Charles whispers, hovering above Erik, his whole body trembling as he holds himself as still as possible as they both adjust to the feeling of each other. Erik stares up at Charles and he’s so overwhelmed by what he sees there, love he’s never felt he deserved, that he turns his head and looks away.

“Please,” Erik says and that’s enough to spur Charles to move, and he does, a couple slow, long strokes that are almost painful because they feel so good and then faster, harder. Erik reaches out to grasp anything he can find, clutching those cotton sheets, then his arms come up and wrap around Charles’ back, fingers slipping on sweaty skin, feeling the movement of muscles under his fingertips. Charles’ jaw is clenched and his hips snap forward as he drives his cock into Erik. Then he grunts, his arms come around Erik’s back and suddenly Charles is rocking backwards, taking Erik with him, until they’ve changed position and now Charles is on his knees with Erik in his lap, cock still balls deep in Erik’s ass.

“Kiss me,” Charles hisses and Erik dips his head and does as he’s been asked, going long and deep, tongues sliding against each other, and the whole time Charles is thrusting short, sharp movement that are angled just right to make Erik gasp every time he hits that particular spot. Erik pulls his mouth off Charles making Charles whine a little and mutter something about not stopping, so he slots their mouths together again, their kisses even filthier than before.

In this position Erik doesn’t have much choice but to give into Charles because he has no leverage, no ability to push back, and soon he finds that all he can do is let go and let the sensations spark across his nervous system. Charles’ hands have been gripping his back but one of them releases and snakes between them to wrap around Erik’s hard, aching cock and this makes Erik spit out a string of expletives, followed by a warning that he’s going to come.

“Please come,” Charles says, leaning forward to place a kiss on Erik’s chest as his hips increase their pace, “because I’m fucking about to,” and Erik thinks that he likes Charles with a bit of a dirty mouth, licking the sweat off his chest as he pounds up into him. With that thought, Erik feels the curl of inevitability in his belly, the sweet tightness that says it won’t be long now, and he lets out one long groan, followed by another, deep and guttural, and then his orgasm overtakes him, and he doubles over as he comes, spurting sticky and hot onto Charles’ chest. He clenches tightly around Charles who is still pounding up into him. Charles' orgasm follows close behind Erik's, his hand dropping Erik’s cock as he wraps both arms around Erik’s back and clings to him, shaking as he comes, and Erik hears Charles saying his name over and over again.

They stay like that for a long moment until Erik feels sharp shooting pain through his injured leg and at his sharp intake of breath, Charles pulls away and quickly adjusts so they end up lying stretched next to each other, both of them still shaking as Charles murmurs apologies.

“It’s okay,” Erik says and he smiles. It’s really okay. His leg hurts but it’s all okay. It’s more than that. It’s wonderful.

“So,” Charles says after a long time, as Erik is lying there feeling boneless, trying to ignore how much his leg is hurting and telling himself that all of this will get better, especially now, “you’re here.”

“I am,” Erik says, and later he will tell him all of it. The hospital, waking up, Remy, the guilt, missing Charles, being afraid that everything he thought about them that was real was a lie. He'll hand him the journals he wrote, pages and pages of a love letter all for Charles. But not now. They have time.

“And you’re staying.”

Erik turns to look at Charles who is propped up on one elbow and now that his brain isn’t lust addled, his eyes roam over the other man’s shoulders and chest.

“Only if you want me to,” Erik says softly. Charles huffs out a little laugh.

“Oh Erik. All I want is you. All I’ve ever wanted is you, before I even met you.”

Erik blinks back tears.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so wrong about anyone in my entire life,” Erik says. “I mean, you were an idiot to come to Syria with me, but if you hadn’t, I would have written you off, and we wouldn’t be here.”

“You wouldn’t be shot.” Charles says softly, his voice tinged with regret, “and Remy wouldn’t be dead. You wouldn’t have taken me out to take pictures that day, we wouldn’t have led them back to everyone else. He would be alive.”

Erik’s breath hitches at the other man’s words and he realizes they are both living with the same guilt.

“Maybe,” Erik mumers. “We’ll never know.”

“I guess not.” Charles says and he moves his eyes from Erik’s to look off into the corner of the room, staring at nothing in particular, lost in his thoughts and his grief. Erik wants to take it all away, but he has his own and he knows that both of them are going to have to live with what happened.

This gives Erik a chance to really take in Charles for the first time. They aren’t in a war zone, they’re not in the midst of kissing or touching, they are just lying next to each other, almost touching but not quite, and Erik allows his eyes to wander over Charles’ naked form with abandon, taking in every angle, every curve, the strength of his arms, his legs, and he’s so glad that this man was spared a bullet ripping into bone and muscle. So glad he’s fully formed and beautiful and all Erik’s.

Charles turns his face back to Erik’s and whatever he sees there appears to startle him because he stops and stares, eyes locking with Erik’s, and they are both still.

“What are you looking at?” Charles finally says and Erik sees his skin flush and he sees the constellations that drift across Charles forearms, his shoulders, the ones he’s dreamed of.

“Those freckles,” Erik hums, a smile playing across his lips. The freckles that he can’t get enough of, that are so Charles.

“Oh my god, my freckles,” Charles laughs, his head tilting slightly back, “I hate them so much, covered with spots, some sort of fucking giraffe... umph... ahhhh….” then his voice trails off as Erik presses his mouth to a grouping of those offensive spots thinking that maybe Charles will change his mind about their usefulness with just a little oral persuasion.

“They’re a menace,” Erik says against pale skin. “I see them and I can’t think.”

“You’re a menace, Erik Lehnsherr,” Charles gasps.

“I’m your menace,” Erik says, his mouth finding another grouping and this time he swipes his tongue across them and his rewarded with a strangled moan.

“Yes my love,” Charles gasps, “All mine.”

 

**~*Epilogue*~**

 

When Erik arrives at the pub he can’t help but feel like butterflies are flipping around in his stomach and he knows that there’s no way he’ll never feel responsible for what happened. If he’d done something differently, one thing, run down a different street, found shelter somewhere else, Remy would still be alive. The feeling subsides when he sees Emma perched on a stool and waving at him. He tightens the grip he has on Charles’ hand and pulls the other man a little closer and the two of them make their way towards Emma and the rest of the group gathered to remember their friend.

He left his cane behind tonight. He still uses it most of the time but he can walk longer and longer without it. For this he didn’t want to have people staring at the cane and the way he still limps a little, and it would be a distraction from Remy and all he meant. So he’d left it leaning in the hallway. When Charles glanced at it and asked if he wanted to bring it, Erik had replied that he didn’t. Charles didn’t argue, just told him that if he needed to, Erik could lean on him. Now his leg is aching as they stand in the pub, but not too badly, and he has some extra pain medication if he needs it.

“Erik!” a voice calls and Erik turns his head to see Marie coming towards him, and the guilt surges to the point that it feels entirely overwhelming. It slips away when Marie, one of the few people who were there that day, who really knows what happened, throws her arms around him and buries her head in his chest, saying she's so glad to see him. Erik releases Charles’ hand and wraps both his arms around Marie and they stand there, holding each other. Charles steps away, although Erik knows he’s reluctant to leave Erik’s side, and goes to stand next to Emma, chatting politely to her because they did not just become friends through this whole thing, they have stayed friends as well.

“He was an amazing person,” Marie says when they finally pull apart. “I miss him every day.”

“Me too,” Erik says.

It’s been two months since Erik returned from Germany and he’s spent the entire time at Charles’ country house doing nothing. He hasn’t even touched his camera that they managed to get out of Homs when they medivac'd him to Landstuhl. Charles sees him glance at it every once in a while, but he never pushes and never asks if he wants to ever use it again. Maybe someday, Erik thinks. Maybe not.

Charles is immersed in his charity work, using everything he learned in Jordan and Syria to craft a plan that will truly help the people there, and Erik is happy that something good has come out of that trip. One night as they are eating a dinner Erik prepared, Charles tells Erik that he wants to go back.

Erik freezes and fear climbs up his body turning it cold.

“Not Syria, love.” Charles says, “Jordan. I want to see what we’re doing, how my money is helping.”

Erik nods. He understands. But still….

“And I want you to come with me.” Charles continues. Erik blinks in surprise.

“When?” Erik asks, knowing that even if he’s uncomfortable, he’ll go wherever Charles wants because there’s no way in hell he’s letting Charles go alone. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Soon,” Charles says, “but when you’re more ready.” That was three weeks ago and they’ll leave for Amman in a month, and Erik has been thinking that maybe he’ll bring his camera along. Just in case. That’s not on Erik’s mind right now. Tonight now they are remembering Remy LeBeau’s life, taken too early.

“Erik!” a voice calls across the crowd and Erik looks towards it to see Saeed. Everyone there that day is here and Erik finds himself being hugged warmly by the Jordanian who has settled in London and who emails him a few times a week. They even went to a game together, which made Charles grin and tell Erik that he was getting pretty good at this having friends thing. Erik told him to fuck off then kissed Charles soundly to make sure he knew Erik didn't actually mean it.

Soon everyone at the pub is drinking and laughing and trading stories, and slowly Erik feels just a small bit of the guilt fall away. It will be a long time before he will be able to accept that there was bad luck involved, and as much as he’s always believed that when you do the kind of work he and Remy did you live waiting for the day you will die, he will have a hard time ever accepting that Remy’s day was truly that particular day.

Charles is lost in the crowd somewhere, most likely charming the pants of some poor unsuspecting journalist. Where Erik has a hard time interacting with the human race, Charles has endless charm that he can turn on and off, and Erik has added it to his ever growing list of admirable qualities he sees in the man he loves.

Emma comes up to Erik and smiles at her.

“Muñoz is doing really well, Erik. He’s been a great fit, but he’ll never be you.”

“Hmmmmm….” Erik hums and takes a sip of his Guinness.

“He doesn’t let me call him asshole on a regular basis. Too much for his fucking delicate ears.”

“Maybe he thinks it’s actually unprofessional.” Erik suggests wryly.

“That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Erik. You have a neverending dedication to being entirely unprofessional. And you're an asshole.”

“Couldn’t resist, Emma?” Erik asks, smiling his former editor.

Emma grins back at him.

“Anyway, you should see some of the stuff he sent us from Pakistan. Sent him to cover that awful massacre and the photos. I mean, they’re Pulitzer winning stuff.”

Erik raises an eyebrow and looks at Emma.

“And I suspect you’re going to submit them.”

Emma huffs out a little laugh.

“It would be great to have two Pulitzer winning photos in a row,” Emma muses, “and maybe Muñoz would actually show up. I mean, that asshole who won last year didn’t even bother to show up for the luncheon.”

Erik smiles. He was a little busy, and if he'd stayed in London to accept the award he would never have fallen in love with Charles. Sorry Pulitzer people. He had other things to do.

“Not he didn’t,” Erik says to Emma, then repeats it to himself, “No he didn’t.”

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Some links of interest:
> 
> [2013 Breaking News Pulitzer](http://www.pulitzer.org/works/2013-Breaking-News-Photography) winning photographs from Syria
> 
> [NYT Syria Page](http://topics.nytimes.com/top/news/international/countriesandterritories/syria/index.html)
> 
> [NYT Zaatari article](http://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/05/world/middleeast/zaatari-refugee-camp-in-jordan-evolves-as-a-do-it-yourself-city.html?_r=0)
> 
> [NYT Article on Marie Colvin and Rémi Ochlik ](http://www.nytimes.com/2012/02/23/world/middleeast/marie-colvin-and-remi-ochlik-journalists-killed-in-syria.html?pagewanted=all), two Western journalists killed in Syria
> 
> [Syria's Agony: The Photographs that Moved them Most](http://lightbox.time.com/2012/12/10/photographing-syrias-agony-the-images-that-moved-them-most/#1) from Time. A really amazing collection of photographs from Syria along with stories from the photographers.
> 
> [How to Help Syrian Refugees](http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/06/world/iyw-how-to-help-syrian-refugees/) (CNN)


End file.
